


Michael Myers One-Shots

by Rebel_Wolf



Category: Halloween - Fandom, Michael Myers - Fandom
Genre: A stabby boi, Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Arachnophobia, Bare Skin, Choking, Claiming, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Failed suicide/assisted suicide attempt, Fluff, Getting scared, Heated/intense kissing, Hurt Michael, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Content, Kissing, Michael is a jerk, Panic Attacks, Referenced alcohol abuse, Scary Movies, Seduction, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Sweet Michael, Tracing, Violence, hostility, inner turmoil, tackling, voices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Wolf/pseuds/Rebel_Wolf
Summary: A collection of Michael Myers one-shots with angst, violence, fun, silliness, and an eventual loving Michael.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 267





	1. I’ll Take Care of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader follows Michael Myers out on one of his nightly killing sprees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel
> 
> \- I loved writing about Michael and somewhat of a glimpse into his caring side. With everything going on, anyone could use a bit of Michael love.

Michael had went out tonight as he usually does for his nightly routine. Instead of staying home and going to sleep like you normally do, you decided to risk it and follow him. You wanted to see what he did and how. You cared for him, and maybe seeing him in the act would lessen the stress you felt every time he went out. 

As you heard the front door open and close, you pulled on a hoodie and waited a moment before walking out the door. Michael wasn’t too far away, but his pace was brisk. For a second you considered turning back, but instead you continued forward. You pulled your hood up to escape the chill and walked a good distance behind him. You watched him walk around as he searched for anyone to kill or even a house light that was turned on. You could tell that the hunger for a victim kept growing stronger, and his hands were fully clenched into fists – his knuckles pure white. Suddenly Michael stopped walking, causing you to stop abruptly. His hands went up to his ears and you could hear faint grunting sounds coming from Michael. The voices seemed to be getting louder, and even painful as the night drew on without a single kill. 

Suddenly Michael’s head popped up, and he began to stare across the street. You followed your eyes where Michael was looking. There was a man on the sidewalk walking with earbuds in. Michael didn’t hesitate before crossing the street and approaching the man. The man's eyes flooded with fear as Michael grabbed him by the throat and pulled him between two houses. You walked a bit closer to see what was going on. Michael’s hand was gripping the man's throat while he held his knife. Michael squeezed his throat harder in order to hear the snapping of his neck. Michael dropped his body carelessly and stood over the corpse. He stared down at the dead man and tilted his head, curious as to how fragile he is. Was. 

You gasped involuntarily at Michael’s actions, not out of fear, but admiration at how easily he could kill. Michael tensed. He heard you, oh fuck. You whipped around and ducked between two houses so he wouldn’t see you. After a few seconds, you looked to where Michael was standing, but the only thing there was the body. Fear struck you. Then you felt something wrap around your neck tightly and slam you against the side of a house. You looked up to see the silhouette of Michael staring down at you intensely. The street lights flickered on, but the light didn’t reach where you stood. This meant Michael couldn’t see your face, not only because of the lack of light, but his generally poor eyesight. 

Michael’s grip on your throat was getting tighter, making it almost impossible to breathe. Then, you saw the slight shine of something in Michael’s hand. His knife. 

Before you could attempt to say or do anything to make Michael realize it was you, even though it may not even matter to him, you felt a small slice in your stomach. The knife ripped through your clothes, and left a medium gash on your stomach. You choked out a small cry even through lack of oxygen. Your vision started fading and your hands flailed wildly attempting to reach your hood. Finally, you felt fabric hit your hand and grabbed your hood violently and ripped it off. A hint of recognition was shown in Michael’s posture. 

Michael slowly lessened his grip on your throat, but not completely. He pulled you by your neck and onto the sidewalk so the streetlights could fully illuminate your face. 

“Michael,” you choked out, “please.”

But his grip tightened again. He wasn’t sure if he should help you, or kill you. He knew how disposable you were, but still a faint sign of concern flicked for a brief second in his dark eyes. His eyes glanced down at the blood leaking through your clothes, and compared how weak, if not weaker, you were just like the man. He tilted his head and looked up at you again. He put his knife against your throat just below his hand. You whimpered and Michael felt your vocal cords vibrate under his hand. 

Michael remembered all the times that when he came stumbling back to your house after a night of killing people. Some nights would be rougher than others and you’d always wake up and fix him up. You were disposable, but Michael still had a use for you, and was curious about you. Maybe even slightly cared for you. 

Michael fully took his hand and knife off of your throat and picked you up, knife still in hand. You were clutching your abdomen, trying not to bleed anymore than you already had. Michael carried towards your house. When you looked up at his face, unsure of his intent, his eyes held no expression. 

Michael had reached the house and put you down, staring at the door. You took out your keys from your pocket, which were also bloody, and unlocked and opened the door. You stumbled inside, still clutching your stomach, and Michael followed behind you. You turned around and looked at Michael, but he walked towards you and picked you up again. He walked towards the couch and set you down on it, and then disappeared somewhere in the house. 

When you were about to get up, thinking Michael had left, he walked into the living room carrying the first aid kid you restocked for another one of Michael’s incidents. He stood in front of the couch and then stared at you expectantly. You took off your shirt and hoodie, wincing in pain in the process, and threw it aside. You were wearing only a bra on your top half, feeling slightly exposed to Michael. You looked down at the gash and saw that it was fairly deep, and your stomach was coated in blood. 

In Michael’s hand was a wet washcloth which he pressed to your skin. It was cold but soothing, and helped to wash away the blood. He carefully and precisely washed around and on your wound. After it was fully cleaned, Michael pulled out a needle and surgical thread from inside the first aid kit. Your eyes went wide. Although you trusted Michael, he had never done this before, and had only watched you do it for him. Besides, it would hurt like hell. 

Sometimes Michael’s wounds were so deep that you had to sew them. You learned surgical sewing from a first aid class you went to when you knew you needed to dress Michael’s wounds better. 

You attempted to scoot away from Michael, but he began to hold you down. Still, you squirmed under his hand and you could see he was getting frustrated. You stopped moving and just let him do it, you really had no other option. 

Michael inserted the needle and thread into your skin. You gritted your teeth and a sound of pain squeaked from your lips. It felt like you were being stabbed all over again as the thread pulled your skin skin and began to shut your wound. Michael inserted the needle again and threaded it exactly like you would do for him. He must have watched you when you had done it for him and picked up the skill, doing everything correctly. Still, you felt like you were going to pass out. 

You felt something touch your hand and looked down. Michael put his hand into yours. It was a comforting gesture, and every time Michael threaded the needle through you, he let you squeeze his hand. 

Finally, Michael was finished and cut the remaining thread. He then got up and walked toward the kitchen where you heard water running. When he came back he was holding another washcloth and a glass of water, again, just like you’d do for him. He handed you the water, along with painkillers, and then pressed the warm washcloth to your newly sewn wound and cleaned it again. 

Michael turned around and grabbed the bandages. He wrapped you up slowly and tight enough that it was secure, and placed an ice pack onto your stomach. You were surprised at his carefulness and the fact that he was taking care of you. You were sure that as soon as he saw you, he would kill you. 

Michael got up to leave, but before he turned away from you, he looked at you with indecision. When you thought Michael couldn’t shock you more, he began to lift the mask up just above his lips. He leaned down to you and gave you a quick light kiss on the forehead like you did every time after caring for him. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. 

Michael turned away from you and walked into the hallway, presumably towards the bedroom. You were happy that he would stay, but still in shock from the moments before. This was the first time you realized that you were in love with Michael Myers.


	2. Swimming With the Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader goes for a swim after a stressful year of college, and Michael gets pulled into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I’ve always loved Michael and have been starting to write more, especially with everything going on. I hope to write more soon!

The warm summer breeze hit your body as you stepped out onto your back porch, the hot sun kissing your skin. You could not be more relieved that summer was finally here; it had been a long, rough year.

You made your way over to your pool, the water seemingly beckoning to you. You were antsy to jump in and let the cool water engulf you as you took off your cover up.

The pair of eyes watching you from behind never left your form as your swimming suit underneath your clothing was exposed. You never noticed, waving off the tingle on the back of your neck as being the chills running up and down your body from the toe you had dipped in the cold water.

You laughed, stepping back and yelling, “Screw you college!” as you ran and cannonballed into the pool. You squealed when you reached the surface as the coldness took over your body, laughing and splashing the water up in the air so it’d land on your face. The movement of the figure approaching the back door to your pool didn’t catch your eye as you leaned back, dipping your hair in the water and letting yourself float just above the waterline.

You realized this would be the first time in over a year that you let yourself be happy in a bathing suit, and the dark red one-piece that hugged your body made you feel a confidence in yourself you hadn’t felt for awhile.

A small smile formed on your lips at this realization.

You were torn from your thoughts at the sound of the floorboards of your back porch creaking. You opened your eyes and sank back into the pool, your feet barely touching the floor. You were met with a blinding white mask reflecting the summer sun, and hollowed out eyes that revealed the eyes of your lover eyeing you as you grinned widely and swam to the edge of the pool to greet him.

“Hi Michael!” you chirped. The brightness of the outside filled the eye holes of his mask and you could see the beautiful light brown orbs blinking back at you from the large distance between you two. “Come here!” you called out to him with an extended arm, to which he just stared at. You laughed and pushed yourself off from the wall and back into the middle of the pool, casually swimming backwards towards the shallow section while smirking deviously at him. When you felt your feet touch, you stood slowly and watched as his chocolate brown eyes moved down to the soaked, dark red fabric enveloping your curvy form.

You smirked at him then held out your hand again. “Come here, Michael,” you beckoned alluringly. You felt your heart leap and beamed with accomplishment as he slowly started to walk over to you, stopping at the poolside and looking down at you. There were very few times in which Michael refused you when you teased him like this.

You swam over towards him, taking your time to look over his 6’5” shape before meeting his eyes. He wore the bottom half of his coveralls, the top half tied around his waist revealing a white tank top that subtly showed off his muscular abdomen. His perfectly toned and sculpted arms itched to hold your wet body to his as he studied your soft skin shining in the sun. He remained still though as you took your finger and slowly but lightly traced its way up the outside of his leg. He let you, watching you intently. You stood up as you got higher, stopping at his hips to gently wrap your wet, cold hand with his rough, warm one. You both stood like that for what felt like hours, falling deeply into each other’s eyes, contemplating what to do next.

Well, Michael could’ve been—you knew exactly what you were going to do next; you grabbed his other hand and as quickly as you could, put your legs against the pool wall and shoved backwards as fast as you could, and with everything in you, tugged the over 200 pound man with you.

The deep connection you created with him in that moment had you at an advantage with him lost in your eyes. You thought for a split second you were going to die, either by the punishment that was sure to come, or by asphyxiation by the dark shape pummeling towards you.

But the pure chaos that ensued afterwards was by far the most precious blessing God himself has ever done unto you.

Michael hit the water with a smack. You barely got away from him alive, centimeters away from being crushed, and you swam away as quickly as you could in case he decided to grab you, laughing as you did so. When you turned you found a very flustered, very soaked Michael, and you could hear faint deep gasps and grunts coming from under the mask, his hands moving rapidly, feeling the water around him and his mask. All you could do was laugh as you watched him reach for his mask, and you thought he’d pull it off, but he only pulled the bottom of his mask away from his skin, which you then realized through tear-filled eyes was to let out all the water that had collected inside his mask.

You lost it.

You were howling, cackling, wheezing—sounds escaping your throat that you didn’t even know was possible for you. Your body didn’t know what to do or how to respond to the situation before you, so when you accidentally got a huge mouthful of pool water down the wrong pipe, you were _literally_ dying. Michael was still letting some water out of his mask and the sight made you want to continue to laugh, but that only made things worse for your choking issue.

Michael finally noticed you were dying, and slowly walked through the pool water over to you with a glare, watching you die in a way that seemed like he thought this was what you deserved for doing this to him; he looked completely ridiculous with his clothing somewhat see through on top and sticking to his body, and the hair of his mask soaked down.

You finally found that you could somewhat breathe again but let out a squeak as you realized how close he was getting to you and swam away as quickly as you could. If there was one thing you should’ve learned by now, though, it’s that nobody can outrun the shape—or out- _swim_ , apparently. You were reminded of this as you immediately felt a huge, rough, strong hand grip your ankle and yank you backwards. You were kicking and splashing around as a combination of screaming and laughing exploded from you.

When Michael flipped you by your leg so you were facing him, the image of his sopping wet body came fully into your view, but you stifled your laugh as you worked out just how much trouble you were in. He stared down at you with a glare—you were so dead. You decided you’d try to talk your way out of it: “Michael,” you said his name to make sure he was going to listen to your reasoning, only getting an irritated glare in response. You couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, “I’m sorry but I just couldn’t help myself!”

No response, just the same look, growing more impatient with you.

“Alright Michael, you can get out to dry off, I won’t do it again,” you said with resignation in your tone. He seemed to decide against drowning you anyway and glared at you over his shoulder as he turned and walked towards the side of the pool.

But you were an idiot.

“Hey Michael! One last thing.” He turned. You cupped your hands against the surface of the water and splashed down, the water responding with a _gudung_ and the splash flying forward aimed directly for Michael.

You didn’t wait to see if your splash made it to him because you realized you were laying— _swimming_ in your deathbed. However, you concluded that it must have from the sounds of a large form cutting through the water behind you, making a beeline right for you.

You started laughing again, squealing in between your roars, which only slowed your attempted escape. Although you were growing tired and your stomach hurt from your laughter, you felt a glimmer of hope as you neared the edge of the pool. You could reach out to touch it, almost, but not quick enough to save yourself from the suffocating grip two wet, strong arms wrapped you into, your fingers teased by the stone surface they just barely grazed. You were tossed backwards back into the pool and you hit the cold water with a smack. When you came up for breath you saw Michael barreling towards you, and you did the only thing you could do in a pool: splash.

You probably looked like you were having a seizure, so much so that Michael’s pursuit faltered, actually wondering if he threw you too hard. Nevertheless, he continued through the water erupting around you, ignoring your shrieking. When you realized your violent splashes weren’t stopping the giant man in front of you, you desperately tried to redirect the water more towards his mask, but this only caused him to lunge at you, making you miss your hopeless attempt at filling his mask with water, and instead getting tackled into the pool.

Your deranged mind still had you laughing at the situation you were now in, being held down by Michael Myers underwater—Michael Myers, _underwater_. Your sudden submerged burst of laughter caused all the air to leave your lungs, letting water into your throat and mouth instead.

Michael knew you were about to die and realized he didn’t want to kill you this way, even though he badly wanted you dead at this moment in time. He reluctantly released your shoulders and you both swam up to the surface. You were coughing and eagerly gasping for breath as Michael watched your suffering. Then he grew bored of watching you fail miserably at the simple act of inhaling and exhaling and made his way to the nearest side of the pool, lifting himself up so he could sit on the edge facing your pale form.

Your struggle finally ceased and you were left with a shaky laugh that confused Michael since he thought you were going to pass out. You were an interesting being to him.

He tilted his head at you in wonder, absently letting his legs sway in the water.

Everything seemed a lot more peaceful; you could hear birds singing together in the trees surrounding you and the leaves rustling softly in the light breeze.

You smiled brightly as you swam to Michael’s side, leaning against his leg with your arms resting on his thigh. He looked down at you, waiting. “You’ve never gone swimming before, have you,” you asked.

No response.

“Well you can actually swim now, minus the splashing of course,” you laughed.

He didn’t move. That meant it was not up for discussion.

You dropped it. “Alright,” you sighed and swam back out into the pool. “The water’s nice though,” you offered, moving to your backside, floating on top of the surface. “But a little chilly,” you commented. “Could use a water heater...”. 

You could tell Michael was inwardly rolling his eyes by the way he was watching you. Then he stood up and made his way to your porch. 

“Oh, c’mon Michael! I promise no more splashing! It’ll be fun!” you called after him, but he shut the door behind him and you knew he wouldn’t be able to hear you anymore.

You groaned, laying your head back and looking at the bright blue sky above you. Then you closed your eyes, giving up on the idea of swimming with the shape and trying to focus on the calming sounds around you.

The tranquility was disturbed along with your thoughts at the sound of a door slamming shut and floorboards creaking. You shot up and saw Michael had returned holding a pile of fresh towels folded neatly, and you watched as he laid them down on a back porch chair. You saw that he had discarded his soaked coveralls and instead put on a long, dark pair of athletic shorts you had gotten him awhile back but gave up on trying to make him wear, and he remained in his white tank and mask. He stalked his way over to you and you grinned up at him. 

You held your hand out to him and whispered, “ _Join me_ ”.

~<#>~

It seemed like you two were out there for only minutes, but it had been hours—well past lunch, and Michael had never missed a meal.

You climbed out of the pool, dark red swim suit clinging to your skin, and stood at the edge. You began to pose seductively as Michael watched you, tilting his head to either side. “Oh Michael~,” you called flirtatiously. 

He was intently watching you, so you persisted your enticing movements. 

“Catch me,” you told him, then jumped into the water. He wasted no time in making his way over to you and as you reached the surface, he pulled you to him. You laughed as he turned your head to look up at him. There was hunger in his eyes, you could see, but you decided to continue with your little game. “I said you had to catch me,” you purred, and pulled away from him, swimming backwards with a teasing smile plastered across your face. 

You watched as Michael slowly lowered himself underwater. You shrieked and swam away while trying to keep an eye out for a dark mass by you. None appeared, and you stopped to look around you.

Nothing.

Suddenly, you screamed as huge hands grabbed you from behind pulling you against a solid body. You laughed as you turned against Michael to face him, hugging his warmth against your cold figure. With one calloused finger, Michael traced down your frame from the nape of your neck down to the top of your thigh. You smiled blissfully and pulled back to meet his beautiful eyes. You giggled and dunked under the water to swim out of his arms, and when you reappeared to him, he looked as if he was about to come after you—he had caught you, just like you told him to, so now he should be able to have you.

You pulled yourself back out of the pool and stood on the burning hot stone. “Michael, I have something for you,” you said between giggles. You could tell his interest was piqued, his eyes still hungry for you. “Do you still want me?” you asked innocently. He took a step towards you, his gaze upon you intense. You took that as a yes.

You took a few steps back, then jogged to the edge where you jumped, briefly seeing Michael’s face turning from lust to panic as gravity pulled you down towards him. You couldn’t help but laugh the whole time, and when your body collided with his, Michael let out a low _oomf_ , and fell backwards into the water. 

When you were finally able to stop laughing, you took in the position you were now resting in; Michael was leaning back into the water with you laying against his chest. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were from all the hysterics, panic, and physical activity you found yourself in. And you were _so cold_. You found yourself melting into Michael’s heat, moaning at the feel of him in the frigid water surrounding you.

You sighed as his grip tightened around you. You were his, you had always been his, and he made sure you knew that. But you also had some power over him as well—though he’d never admit it. He was sure you knew that anyways, and if not, there was no way you didn’t now—swimming was the last thing on his list of priorities. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Maybe if he was out on his nightly hunt and one of his victims had a pool, he might get the idea to drown the prey in it, but Michael? _Swim?_ No way. There was just something about you that made him listen to you. Was it love? Perhaps, but for now, he was happy to leave it without a title.

When he felt your slight shiver against him, he gently stood and pulled you up out of the water in his arms where he cradled you. As he took the steps out of the pool, you chuckled, “I can’t believe you actually got in the pool with me...” A minute later, you added, “and not against your own will.” 

He just ignored you as he set you down on a back porch chair and wrapped a towel around your shoulders. Before he could get too far away from you, you grabbed his arm and pulled him down next to you. You then grasped another towel and threw it over his shoulders, keeping your hand on his back, rubbing it soothingly. He only looked at you, allowing your contact and closeness to him, so you leaned your head against his shoulder and looked out at the shining water in front of you, the sun dancing across it.

After awhile, Michael settled into you, and his weight against you told you that he too was exhausted. A faint smile ghosted across your lips as his head hesitantly leaned against the top of yours. You still couldn’t believe Michael let himself have fun in a pool with you. You wanted to pinch yourself to see if you were just dreaming.

Your arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close to you, and you heard an indistinct sigh escape his mask.

In this moment, you couldn’t be happier.

“ _I love you, Michael_ ,” you whispered, and closed your eyes, sinking into the warm summer atmosphere, and the feeling of the shape against you.


	3. Happy Birthday to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael pays reader a surprise visit in the middle of the night, and reader decides to follow after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I originally wrote this for Rebel’s birthday, because hey, who wouldn’t want Michael as a gift?

It was another one of those nights—completely sleepless, leaving you tossing and turning endlessly. You were just about to give up and try to find a nice book to read when you heard a slight floorboard creak come from your living room. Your heart dropped a little at the sound; it sounded just as if it had been brought on by a footstep.

You reluctantly pulled yourself out of bed as quietly as you could so you could sneak down your hallway to see what could’ve caused such a sound. All the while you were thinking about how courageous you suddenly were— _why were you doing this again?_

You felt your hands start to sweat and your heart start to pound as you neared your doorway and looked down the ominous hallway before you. You could feel your body begin to protest as you started down that hallway, yet something was pulling you towards the source of the noise, and you therefore could not find it in you to turn around.

You kept going.

You finally reached the end of your hallway and very slowly peered around the corner into your kitchen.

You felt your heart stab the inside of your chest when you saw what was awaiting you in your kitchen.

Michael freakin Myers—his arms cradling stacks of sweets, his mask folded halfway up his face revealing half a poptart shoved into his mouth—turned to you with a look that said both “ _oh crap_ ” and “ _yeah, I’m stealing your food, what are you gonna do about it?_ ”

You had to stifle a laugh. He just blinked at you, completely frozen. 

Still silently convulsing about the scene in front of you, you made your way over to him. “Need a hand?” you offered.

He continued to stare at you, unmoving.

So you reached out carefully and while keeping an eye on the expression in his chocolate brown eyes, you gently took hold of a few of the sweets in his strong, muscular arms. The whole time, you couldn’t stop thinking about how these same hands—the ones that choked the life out of countless, unnameable people, and simply snapped the necks of countless others—were holding packages of chocolate hostess cupcakes.

After relieving him of some of the load he was carrying, he, without taking his eyes off of you, began to leave the kitchen, only returning his gaze to in front of him when he new he had to navigate the darkness of your living room.

You followed.

Ahead of you, you saw him reach the passenger’s side door of his car and open it up. As you approached him you watched as he opened the glove compartment and stuffed it full with his new treats he raided from your home, not before you could get a glimpse of his stash of chocolates.

When he finished taking your— _his_ snacks out of your arms, he just stood staring down at you, almost as if he was waiting. When you finally put two and two together by looking at the still open passenger’s side door and the huge wall blocking the way around his car and back up to your house, you quietly got into his car, realizing that was why he was staring at you expectantly. He shut the door behind you and got in the driver’s side, starting it up, and almost immediately stepping on the gas, getting away from your house.

It was quiet for awhile as you happily listened to the low, steady breaths emanating from under his mask. You couldn’t help but notice how careful yet calculated he was with how he drove, his movements seamless. You _also_ found yourself not being able to take your eyes off of his large hands that gripped the steering wheel of his car, and the sound they made when he slid them over the wheel when turning due to the roughness of them. You even found that the longer you watched them, the more your body started to ache for them to be touching you, to have them on you, and you wondered just how warm and calloused they would feel against your bare skin—

—Michael rather abruptly turned on the radio which had been settled on a classic rock station. This snapped you out if your thoughts so easily that you thought for a moment that he must’ve been reading your mind or something. Your face reddened and you felt heat creeping into your cheeks. You instead decided to busy your thoughts by enjoying the night just outside your window.

You didn’t realize you were so close to the city, and as you stared into all the beautiful lights in the distance—all different colors—you couldn’t help but get lost again.

You absolutely loved the feeling of being out at night like this. There was something about driving around at night that made you feel more secure than you did in your own home. The small place instead left you feeling more comforted, the orange of the streetlights pooling into the car made the feeling in the car almost intimate. You chalked it up to being because there was a huge hunk of hotness right next to you taking you past these sights, almost seeming to be driving with a purpose.

About 45 minutes had passed before Michael finally found a nice place to stop, a place where the lights from the city still made their way into your car, highlighting your and Michael’s features with orange and yellow.

You realized Michael had turned off his car when you were grounded again by his heavy breathing, though you weren’t complaining. He didn’t waste much time getting into his stash once parked; he reached across you and opened the glove compartment, grabbing the first thing his hands came into contact with: the chocolate hostess cupcakes. You both sat in silence as you stared off in the distance, admiring the beauty of the city at night, while Michael happily ate his treats beside you.

Another few minutes had passed when you finally tore your eyes away from the city and settled them on Michael. You took the time to shamelessly study his mask. You could see every little divot, every single curve, and when your eyes landed on what you could see of his eyes, you almost melted into your seat; the orange engulfed them, and mixed with the light brown of his eye color, they looked absolutely gorgeous. The more you stared at them, the more you felt as if you were being sucked into his soul, and the more you felt yourself leaning towards him.

He felt you coming closer to him, so he turned to look at you. As soon as you made eye contact, you immediately felt like an idiot. You would’ve sat back into your seat and gone back to staring at the city or busying yourself with your hands, but the way he looked at you made you stop. Stop everything, really, you were no longer respirating. There was no judgment in his eyes, no annoyance, and though Michael was not one for showing his emotions, the way his eyes sparkled in the light seemed to tell you that he also—somewhere deep down inside the dark void that was him—somewhat enjoyed studying your face, too.

You were definitely slap happy. It was 2 o’ clock in the morning and you 100% were not on this Earth; you leaned forward, and you planted a small kiss on the lips of his mask.

After pulling away, you were immediately crippled by anxiety, and almost started crying right then and there, almost certain he would reach out and grab your throat and put you out of your misery before whatever panic attack you were going to have would get to you. But again, all of your fear stopped as you noticed again the way he was looking at you. After the slight shock by your actions left his eyes, they were instead filled with... curiosity? You guessed because of the way his head slightly tilted to his right, his gaze unwavering.

And so you continued. You continued alright, boy did you. You slowly reached out with shaky hands and curled your fingers underneath the bottom of his mask, the latex slightly warm, his neck pressed against the back of your fingers even warmer.

You began to lift it up. You were sure to be very careful for any slight change of emotion in his eyes that would set off some kind of territory invasion alarm, but none came, not even as you lifted the mask up past his lips.

You stopped there, thinking about the amount of exposure of himself he’s allowed in front of you, which has been right about where you had folded his mask now—where he had it when he ate.

You took this time to study his lips. From the way they curved, to the slight tint of pink mixed with the orange lights surrounding you, and then to their texture—so soft. So soft that you had to reach up with two fingers and touch them, tracing just the bottom lip ever so slightly to test if what you were seeing was real.

It was.

When you lifted your eyes back up to his, you found that he was still looking at you. There was more than just curiosity in his eyes now. You didn’t want to think that the tiniest amount of fondness you were seeing behind them was real because you couldn’t get your hopes up. He was Michael Myers, and he did not view others like he seemed to be viewing you right now. Right?

You found that you could no longer stop yourself from wanting to know what it would feel like to have your lips against his, so you boldly began to lean towards him, your lips ghosting over his. The fire growing in the pit of your stomach began to roar and rage as you felt his warm, steady breaths against your lips and escaping through your slightly parted mouth. With no more will to control yourself, you placed one hand to the side of his face and the other to his strong shoulder, and you pressed your lips to his.

Your mouths fit perfectly with one another, and after savoring the feeling, you began to deepen the kiss once you felt him kiss you back, slowly and taking your time, knowing that he would be inexperienced. You felt his rigid form beneath your hands become softer as he allowed himself to lean more into you. Then he began to move more with his lips, painfully slowly but beautifully as he picked up quickly on how to kiss you back. When you finally felt one of his huge hands hesitantly rest on the small of your back, your questions were answered when you found that, even through the cloth of your shirt, they were indeed warm, and as he slightly parted his fingers, calloused.

Heat shot through your whole entire body, the contact from his hand sending jolts of electricity straight through your very core. You sighed into him as you began to run your hand that was resting on his shoulder down his arm and back up again, down and up his back, feeling his muscles, and stopping on his chest, feeling his heart pounding throughout his whole entire body.

You shuddered when you began to feel the kiss become more heated, your breaths intertwining in some mesmerizing dance. Both of you were moving rhythmically with one another, his kisses going from soft and tender to rough and needy. The hand on your back began to move upwards, sending shivers down your spine. You pulled him closer to you, your chests now touching, and all the doubts you had before towards Michael actually caring about you deep down somewhere underneath that cloak of darkness—completely dissipated as his hand tangled in your hair. You let out a slight moan when you thought you felt the tip of his tongue touch your bottom lip, testing.

You started to push yourself onto him, not being able to control your hands or your mouth for that matter, and all you wanted was to feel his whole beautiful body pressed against yours, his heat moving through you and into you. You were about to meet your tongue with his, furthering whatever was happening with this wonderful man, if it weren’t for the fact that your hand slipped in your haste to move overtop of him and instead decided to turn on the car somehow in a way that would only make sense to God. You immediately jumped, pushing away from him as you felt the car rumble beneath you and heard the radio in the middle of playing “Separate Ways” by Journey.

Michael moved quickly, yanking his mask back over his face and turning off the radio.

You both sat in silence, neither of you looking at each other as both of your heavy breathing from the kiss and the random idea the car had to turn on—matched each other as it slowed. When Michael was back to his normal calculated and calm self, he put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking space.

As he drove, you stayed in your head, not wanting to look at the amazing being next to you and wondering, _what on earth just happened?_

The one thing you did know, was that this has been one hell of a birthday.


	4. Read to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader reads a book to Michael, but Michael doesn’t let you stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I feel like Michael would love to be read to. Something about him makes me feel like he’s truly a kid at heart, so reading plus horror? It’s the perfect combo for our stabby boi.

You groaned as you set aside your classwork, your hand cramping from all the writing you were doing. You glanced over at your clock next to you: 6:57. You felt awful for spending so much time locked away in your room doing your work while your lover, Michael, was by himself downstairs doing who knows what.

Just as your brain conjured up the thought of him, Michael opened the door to your room. As he entered and walked straight to your bed, he wasn’t looking at you. You knew that lack of interaction with him caused him to retreat back into his own head, the walls erected around himself once again.

You sighed sadly.

“I was just about to take a break,” you told him gently as he laid down beside you, a visible gap between you both. “I was going to read, if you’d like me to read to you?” you offered with a soft smile, even though you knew his eyes were closed, and that he was most likely ignoring you. “I was going to read _Pet Sematary_ ~,” you said with a persuading tone.

His eyes opened at that and his head ever so slightly turned to you. You let out a small laugh and reached out for the book on your nightstand.

~=•=~

“‘... he didn’t feel bad, didn’t feel guilty at all’,” you read. You had been reading to Michael for about 45 minutes, your arms wrapped around him, the book resting on his chest while he leaned back against your stomach, your legs tangled. You were completely comfortable, and Michael seemed perfectly content with where he was, but it was nearing 8 o’clock and you still had work to do.

“Alright bud,” you sighed, and patted his chest as you closed the book, but you were stopped by a large hand that shot out and grabbed the book before you could set it aside. You chuckled as he turned back to the page you were on and forced the book back into your hands. “Michael I’ve got work to do, I’m sorry.” He refused to hear you.

You gently maneuvered yourself out from under him and slowly shut the book again. But Michael quickly sat up, turned towards you, and snatched the book out of your hands, flipping to the page you left on, and practically shoved it into your face.

“Michael can we please do this some other time? I swear I won’t be as long with my work tomorrow,” you promised with a hopeful smile.

He just stared at you expectantly.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and situated yourself back in the previous position you were in, and Michael fell back onto you once more, happily resting his head against your shoulder, no doubt feeling smug about having gotten his way... again.

There was no reasoning with this man.

And so you resumed reading to the giant baby in your arms.

—{ ! }—

“‘... and whispered in her ear that everything was okay, and she slept again’,” you finished and then closed the book before Michael could retaliate again.

That didn’t stop him.

He grabbed the book from you again and this time more aggressively gave it back to you. 

“Jeez, didn’t realize how much of a Stephen King fan you’d turn out to be,” you said in a snarky voice, which Michael did not have the patience for. He whipped around and gave you a look. “Michael, I’m tired, okay?” you admitted, and it was true, you felt like you had just squirted hot sauce into your eyes and your brain was starting to have trouble processing sentences you were reading. 

This did not assuage Michael’s glare, and he continued to wait for you to pick up your reading.

Just then, an idea popped into your head. It might be stupid, and quite possibly futile, but you could _not_ stand to keep yourself in the state you were in—you needed sleep.

“Alright, alright,” you said resignedly, “but can I first get some water? My throat’s feeling a bit dry,” you lied, hoping he’d let you up.

He looked you up and down skeptically before he reluctantly sat up, giving you room to crawl out of the bed. Once you stood at the side of the bed, you looked back at him, and casually said, “thanks”.

Then you ran.

 _Sprinted_ , as fast as you could, reaching the bedroom door just as Michael registered your lying ass. He quickly rolled out of bed and briskly walked after you, following your giggling and loud footsteps down the stairs, thinking how badly he needed to teach you how to be more stealthy.

You reached the front door, but your plan to escape to your friend’s house for the night was ruined when a strong, bone-crushing hand pulled you backwards. You shrieked and tried to run away, but that stupid rug you thought looked nice and decided to buy even when your mom disagreed had turned out to be just the piece of crap your mom said it was; you tripped on it.

You landed on the hardwood floor with a loud thud, which Michael took advantage of. He was on top of you in seconds, spinning you onto your back, pinning you down with his hands holding your wrists to the floor and his legs hooked overtop of yours to keep you from kicking.

“Alright Michael,” you wheezed, “you win. Can I please go to bed now?”

He growled deeply but softly in response which sent you a warning along with his stare fixed on you.

You squeaked, and when he pushed himself up to be kneeling with his legs on either side of you, he pulled you out from under him and threw you over his shoulder while you screamed and laughed.

He made his way back to your room and threw you down onto your bed so that you were on your stomach. Before you could roll over, you felt the bed dip on either side of you and then a weight on your backside. Michael laid himself over top of you to keep you held down and wrapped his arm around your head in a headlock. Then he dropped _Pet Sematary_ down in front of you and you wheezed out a laugh.

“ _Are you serious?_ ” you asked through your laughter, half jokingly and half surprised that he was going through this much trouble to get you to read to him.

His grip around your throat only tightened, so you knew he was serious.

With a heavy sigh, you picked up the book in front of you, turned to the page you left off on, and began to read.

<•¥•>

“‘... he would do anything to have a second chance, anything at all’,” you breathed out as you closed the book for the third time that evening. “Okay Michael, I love you, but I can’t do anymore. I promise you I’ll read more to you tomorrow, but I really need to finish my work now,” you said, your voice hoarse from its incessant use.

He sighed and pushed himself off of you and to his side of the bed where he laid down, his back to you. You quietly sat up and crawled to your side, pulling your classwork back onto your lap and glancing at the clock. 10:48.

After about 30 minutes of hard work, you finally finished your work. You then turned your attention to the massive shape laying beside you.

“Michael?” you called softly, reaching out and laying your hand on his arm.

He didn’t move.

You laid down beside him and wrapped your arms around his waist, laying your head in between his shoulder blades, holding his warmth next to you.

He remained stiff.

After about 5 minutes of laying next to his rigid form, you lifted your head and and leaned over him. “Michael,” you called softly again. This time his head subtly moved to the side towards you. You lightly chuckled, your throat now sounding gunky. “I’m sorry Michael. I didn’t expect this year would be this hard with all of my classwork. I miss spending all day with you, watchin moviieees, listenin to musiiiic, goin for waaaalks,” you said, your voice dripping with reminiscence and longing for when times were easier, fun, innocent.

The more work you got, the less time you spent with Michael, and some days you felt completely distant from him. You knew he was just reverting back to how he was before he met you, which killed you to see because you loved him too much to let him fall back into that state.

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

You knew the answer as soon as the words left your mouth.

Michael sat up, grabbed _Pet Sematary_ , and tossed it in your lap, looking at you with a childlike gaze. You grinned at him, picked up the book from your lap, and happily began reading, your exhaustion and upset throat completely forgotten. You told Michael when you first started your relationship that you wanted to make him happy, and if reading Stephen King books to him for hours on end accomplished just that, you were happy to read to the serial killer who’s a kid at heart next to you.


	5. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader helps Michael the best they can when he comes home completely broken down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- Sometimes it’s hard for other people to feel loved and cared for by another when they’ve been treated otherwise for years by everybody else.

Michael watched as his prey’s life drained from her eyes, her hands that had been clawing at his own wrapped tightly around her throat slowly falling limp at her sides. He then unceremoniously dropped her to the floor, looking down at her exanimate, mangled body, still feeling her warm blood dripping down his fingers.

They were silent.

He wondered if he had silenced them for now, suppressed the urge for that evening.

He was wrong.

They slowly started to come back, whispering more things to him, feeding into his unwanted hunger. He clutched either side of his mask, desperately trying to physically repress the voices.

Michael didn’t feel many things, but now, he felt tired, pained.

 _Weak_.

Without even realizing, he had begun to make his way back to your house. With blood covered hands, he turned the knob of your unlocked just for him back porch door, and stepped inside the warmth of your home, immediately engulfed by the coziness of the atmosphere.

Somewhere a vanilla candle burned.

Footsteps jolted Michael from his absent-minded haze, and the moment his black eyes met your (e/c) ones, filled with worry and care, the loud static created by all the voices in his mind was hushed.

You quickly walked over to him, speaking gently to him, asking if he was alright, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on you; he felt heavy with exhaustion, distress, and vulnerability.

You noticed the blood caked all over his hands, coveralls, and boots. You knew it had been an intense night already, and the fact that he was home earlier than he’d usually be worried you immensely.

You gently guided him to your soft couch, the glow of the candlelight comforting to him. With care, you removed his large boots from his feet and set them out on the back porch where you’d later return to clean them for him. You then went to your kitchen where you turned on the faucet, grabbed a large bowl, and filled it with warm water from the running sink. You grabbed a soft washcloth from a drawer and walked back over to a very visibly out of it Michael.

Your heart ached for him.

You knew how hard it got for him to deal with the constant noise in his head, and you wished you could find a switch to easily turn it off for him. You’d do anything for that switch. But there wasn’t one, and all you could do was continue to tenderly wipe the blood from his rough, calloused hands, and try to ignore the slight tremor to them.

When his hands were cleaned, you asked him if he’d like a new change of clothes, assuring him you could handle the washing. When you got no response, you quietly helped him up off the couch and up the stairs to your room, where you grabbed his spare coveralls from your closet and handed them to him to change, courteously leaving for his privacy.

You busied yourself with his boots. On the bottoms of them was a mixture of blood and mud, and you couldn’t help but picture as you started to clean them the story behind how all this blood and mud got there. You had no idea what he did when he went out on his nightly hunts, only that it helped numb his mind during the day to where he’d have hardly any urges. At night was when he answered to his impulses. It was dangerous, and every time he’d leave, you’d be sick to your stomach with anxiety. You don’t know what you’d do if he came back with police trailing behind him.

You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts.

You did what you could for the time being with Michael’s boots and made your way back upstairs to find Michael sitting on the edge of your bed staring at the floor, his dirty clothes laying on the ground in front of him.

You walked over to him, standing in front of him, almost completely wedged between his legs, finding yourself to be almost level with him. You slowly lifted your hands, gently placing them on his shoulders while trying to meet his gaze through the eye holes of his mask. Your eyes finally met dull, black ones, holding a look you had never seen before.

 _So much pain_.

Michael let out a deep, slightly shaky sigh, which caused you to move your hands to either side of his masked face, bringing your foreheads together.

As Michael looked at you, he wanted to know why you were here; he was a murderer, inhuman.

 _A monster_.

Yet you stayed with him, allowed yourself to be close to him.

 _Touched him_.

He didn’t think when he made the decision to keep you alive he’d go from thinking of you as someone to keep him fed and give him a roof to live under as someone who, not only provided him with those things, but would give him all the love and care in the world along with that. Michael was not one to feel emotion, like when the “nice” nurses from Smith’s Grove faked their smiles for him and pretended to care, he wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t fall into that trap. But there was something about you, something about your smile and loving words that he somewhat believed, and he couldn’t help but feel warm inside in the presence of them.

He didn’t know why you gave him these things, or why you let him stay with you in the first place, and at times, it confused him greatly. However, he began to accept this about you the more he realized that when he was around you, the voices were silent. He stopped having urges towards you and when around you, and he didn’t know why that was, either. But it helped him to believe it was real how you responded to him, that _you_ were real.

So when you couldn’t bare the sight of his troubled eyes anymore, and you cautiously lifted his mask off of his head, he let you, and he pulled you close to him so he could feel the reality of you.

Your arms immediately wrapped around him in response, one hand tangling in his soft, dark hair, the other stroking his back soothingly. You began to speak comforting, loving words to him when you felt his arms begin to tighten around you and his body start to lightly shake, his head buried into the crook of your neck.

You don’t know how long you held onto him, or how long it took for him to loosen his grip and slightly go limp against you. You weren’t sure when it was that your eyelids grew heavy and your tears ceased to fall, but you did know when you were both ready to fall asleep.

You gently pulled away from him and eased him back on the bed, his body instantly sinking into the mattress and pillow. You carefully crawled over him to your side of the bed and laid down on your back, having expected Michael to roll over like he did to lay on top of you, resting his head against your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist. You entwined your legs with his and softly caressed his back and side of his face, occasionally moving your hand to his hair to lightly play with his silky locks.

You started to softly sing to him, simple songs that you faintly remembered your own mother singing to you when you were scared, sad, or needed help falling asleep. The more you sang, the more Michael sank into you, and the more his form relaxed against you, calming.

Michael did not sleep well before he met you; everything was too loud in his brain, and he often did not feel just how tired he was. He was too paranoid about sleeping through any intruders entering his old, abandoned house and finding him, or worse, the police. But when he began to sleep with or near you, he found that he could allow himself to, and a small part of him felt safe. And as he listened to the beautiful subtleness of your voice slipping into his now calmed mind, all he wanted to do was sleep.

So he did, feeling himself drift off to the sound of your steady heartbeat, and the distant smell of a vanilla candle burning.


	6. The Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader wonders what it would be like to be Michael, so they buy a mask, and face the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel
> 
> \- If you’re reading this, you’ve probably also thought about what it would like to be Michael, so why not write a one shot about it?

As you sat in your bed, your room lit up with the warmness of the mid-afternoon sun and your open window let in a breeze. It was a beautiful day—the sun warmed your skin and the breeze cooled you—it was a pleasant contrast in feeling. 

You looked up onto your wall where the sun illuminated it and fell upon your painting of Michael. Even his eyes glowed dark chocolatey brown in the two-dimensional figure on your wall. The mask had beautiful detail, as to capture every specification of Michael’s mask. Each crease, shadow, and indent was perfected over and over to make sure you had the exact image of Michael. You remembered showing the painting to Michael and noted his reaction as he stared at it. Usually when Michael walks into the room, he glances at it, taking notice of his appearance, and then goes about his business. 

A random thought jumped into your head; the same thought you had while creating the painting. 

_What is it like to be Michael?_

The thought didn’t escape your mind. You sat there for moments pondering this question. How would it feel to be in the life of Michael Myers—behind the mask. You chuckled to yourself thinking about wearing Michael’s mask. How would it feel? What does Michael see everyday? Isn’t it _hot_? 

The floorboard creaked from your room and stopped your thoughts. You looked towards your door frame and saw the huge figure standing there. You smiled at Michael who stood almost completely still and stared at you. You locked your gaze with his and was mesmerized by his mask. You wanted to feel the textures of it, and reach out and touch him. 

Standing from your bed, you walked slowly over to Michael and maintained eye contact with him. The closer you got to him, the more you had to crane your neck to look at the 6’5 man, but you didn’t care. The strain on your neck was worth it, because the closer you got to him, the more visible the detail of his mask became. 

You stood as tall as you could, practically on your tippy-toes, and reached out your hand for Michael’s mask. It was smooth and rough at the same time, and the divots of his mask opposed the flatter spots—it reminded you of the warmth of the sun and the chill of the breeze, both working together to create an opposition of bliss. Your heart swelled as his eyes studied your face. Your fingers traced at the lines of his mask and slowly over his lips. You placed your palm flat against his cheek and swiped your thumb back and forth across his mask. Michael tilted his head towards your hand, and you couldn’t tell if it was because he was curious or tenderly pressing his head into your hand, or both. 

You stood off of your toes and slid your hand down to his chest, laying it flat against him. You could feel his heartbeat against your hand while listening to his breathing—slow and steady. You remained concentrated on his heartbeat and breathing, but Michael began to grow tired of standing, and took your hand off of his chest. He began to walk out of the room and your eyes followed him as he left. 

~•~•~•~•~•~  
  


“He's going to kill me,” you chuckled while looking at your laptop screen on your desk. 

The screen illuminated your dark room as you searched for exactly what you wanted. And you found it. It was an exact replica of Michael’s mask. You debated whether or not to buy it, thinking over how Michael would react to it. Honestly, you wanted to buy it just to see what he would do. You clicked “Add to Cart” and then finalized your order. As soon as you did it anxiety and excitement rushed through you. With all of the things you put Michael through, this certainly would have to be the last. 

You are so dead. 

~•~•~•~•~•~

You sat at your kitchen table eating breakfast while Michael was sitting in the seat across from you. You were about to ask Michael if he wanted something to eat, but the doorbell rang, cutting you off. Michael glanced at you questioningly. He knew that you hardly got any visitors, unless it was Girl Scouts trying to sell you cookies or people trying to get you to buy their product. 

“Probably some random guy,” you said to Michael getting up from your seat. 

You almost forgot about the item you bought a month or so back, but when you opened the door and saw the brown box on your porch mat, the realization hit you. You thought at this point it never would have come because of how long it took to arrive, so the mask was put at the back of your mind after about two weeks of waiting. 

You picked up the box and hurried up the stairs to your room before Michael could question you. You placed the box in your closet for later when Michael went out at night, so you could open the box in secret. 

You decided that when you opened the package tonight that you would try the mask on and decide when would be the best time to display it to Michael. Best case scenario is he doesn’t react badly. Worst case scenario—he does. 

You headed back downstairs and finished your breakfast at the table while Michael just stared at you—seemingly figuring out what exactly you seemed to be hiding. You stood up and went to the sink to dispose of your plate, and when you turned around, Michael was gone from the table. You walked into the living room expecting him to be there, but he wasn’t. 

You started heading towards your room up the stairs, worried that Michael got curious. Sometimes you loved Michael curiosity, but sometimes he was too curious. You slowly headed toward your room’s doorway, and was almost certain Michael was in there.

You looked into your room, but Michael wasn’t there. You turned around to check downstairs again until you bumped into something. You looked up, and Michael was staring down at you. 

“Oh, sorry Michael,” you said to him and stepped out of the way. If Michael could visibly raise an eyebrow at you, he probably would. 

“Anyways, do you need something to eat?” You turned towards the stairs. Michael stared into your room for a moment before turning and walking downstairs. You followed him downstairs and planned to make him something. 

~•~•~•~•~•~

It was night and you were up in your room reading to pass the time. It was almost time for Michael to go out. You were getting a bit anxious, but held it down and patiently waited for Michael to go out. 

You heard the front door shut and walked downstairs just to make sure he left. When you got downstairs, he wasn’t inside of the house, and upon looking out the front window, he wasn’t in sight outside either. 

You began to go up the stairs again and head to your room. You were so paranoid Michael was going to pop out of a corner somewhere and catch you. You weren’t sure why you were so scared, but you didn’t know how Michael would react, and if it went sideways, he could honestly snap your neck with his two fingers. You took in a breath to calm your nerves and opened the closet door. The box rested inside of it, barely fitting with everything inside of your closet. You pulled out the box and set it on the floor of your room and sat next to it. You tried to peel the tape off of the package, but of course the packing tape is practically indestructible. 

There was a pair of scissors on your desk that would do the trick. You stood up from off of the floor and retrieved the pair of scissors, and cut into the tape and tore the box open. You were greeted with an abundance of packing peanuts. You shoveled your way through, tossing packing peanuts all over the floor, until your fingers touched a rough material. You pulled it out of the box and looked at it in awe. It really was an exact replica of the mask. You studied it and noticed every intricate detail and not a single thing was different from it compared to Michael’s mask. 

Suddenly, you felt a presence with you. You turned towards your door and saw the large figure standing there, and your heart clenched—Michael. You didn’t know what to say as you were more or less holding his mask in your hands. You tried to think of an explanation, or even a lie to get out of what could be a very bad situation, but your mind went blank. Because your tongue was tied, Michael did the talking.

He took large strides to you until he was towering above you, and your neck felt like it was going to snap just to look at him. You could tell he wasn’t so enthusiastic about the mask by how tense he was. The look in his eyes could have killed you alone. 

As he looked down at you he was lethally pissed. The sight of you holding another mask that looks just like his was almost sickening. Something about it bothered Michael. He leaned down and grabbed your wrist, his grip vice-like. He yanked you up aggressively and used his other hand to wrap it around your throat, and that grip was almost just as harsh as the grip on your wrist. Michael pushed you backwards into the nearby wall with ease, and trying to fight back with your small frame compared to his large body was pathetic.

Your eyes flew wide with panic. His grip around your throat was tight enough to scare you, but enough to let you breathe a little. The mask was still in your hand, but Michael took it from you and held it with such ferocity that you thought his knuckles would split wide open. He squeezed your neck harder before releasing you. Your vision became slightly spotted and your throat burned from a quick inhale of air as you staggered away from his grip and caught yourself on the wall before you fell. His gaze shot through you with anger and even slight amusement of your state. 

“Michael, I—” as you were about to finally gain your words, Michael cut you off by leaving the room and taking the mask with him. His pace was fast and determined and he went down the stairs and towards the kitchen. You followed him down to discover his intent. 

He marched towards the kitchen and gripped the mask until his knuckles were pure white. You caught up to him, and stayed a safe distance away in the entryway of the kitchen watching him. Michael pulled open one of the kitchen drawers and found a box of matches. 

_Was he really going to burn it?_

He fumbled with the match box, still keeping the mask in his hand, and took a match out. 

“Michael just wait,” you walked up to him briskly and grabbed his hand that held the match just before he was about to strike it. You knew that was a mistake, but you needed to know what made him this furious before he burned the mask. 

For a quick second, he softened with your touch, but then immediately tensed back into his agitated state. 

“I’m sorry,” you looked up at him. You regretted buying the mask, and you knew there was a pretty high chance of things going south, but something kept telling you to get it. But why? 

“Why does this make you so angry?” You pushed for an answer that you weren’t even sure that he would give and hoped that your questioning wasn’t futile. 

Michael looked down at you with a blank stare, debating his response. A minute passed before Michael said his piece. He placed the matches on the counter and grabbed your hand. You tensed for a moment, thinking he would get violent again, but he brought your hand up to his mask and rested it on his temple making you slightly relax. Standing there, you questioned this action, unsure of what Michael was trying to say. Then it kind of hit you. 

The realization struck you now why this had hurt him so much and put him into this hostile attitude. This mask is something that’s connected to why he hides his face. The countless murders he’s committed at the will of his voices, and the mask gives him the courage and protection to do so; transforming him into the slave to his mind. It’s something that he hid behind and what transformed him into Michael Myers. The thought of you with this mask sickens him… maybe even scares him. 

You placed your forehead on Michael’s chest and wrapped your arms around his waist. 

“I’m sorry Michael, I never meant to do that to you,” you pulled away from Michael to look at him. He looked back down at you, and his expression was blank but he was more softened towards you. You understood. Not everything, but just what you needed to. 

Michael reached again for the matches and you chuckled. 

“You really want to burn it?” You asked Michael. He nodded his head yes once and slowly. 

“Okay, well let’s do it right then,” you held out your hand for the matches, and Michael reluctantly handed them to you. 

If Michael was really going to get rid of this mask, he could at least do it without burning the house down. You headed towards the backyard where you had a fire pit. At least you could burn the mask in there and the two of you would both be satisfied. 

You took some wood and threw it into the fire pit. You knew Michael was coming up behind you, so you threw a match into the fire and pushed the wood around until the flame became bigger. You stepped aside and let Michael come up to the fire. Without hesitation, he threw it in. 

In a way, it was a bit symbolic watching the replica mask burn. But it was also equally creepy. 

You looked over to Michael and could see him relax as the mask was destroyed. You felt bad for what you did, even though you didn't mean for it to go that way. But what you found out about Michael today made you see things differently. You walked over to him and slid your arm behind his back to watch with him. You realized your question was answered. 

_What is it like to be Michael?_

You watched the remains of the mask burn to ashes and felt better with Michael’s relief. You turned to be in front of Michael and put your hands on his chest. You slid your hands up his chest and onto his shoulders while standing up as high as you could. You looked up into his eyes through his mask. The flame from the fire he stared into made his dark brown eyes look cognac. You lifted the bottom of his mask and folded it up only revealing his lips. Using your hands to guide him down to you by his neck, you kissed him. The fire’s warmth hitting your back was cool compared to Michael’s touch. You loved Michael, and that was everything you needed to know right now. 


	7. His Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is basically the same exact beginning as the last chapter, but an alternate ending. I wrote in bold in the middle if the story where it changes, so if you don’t want to read the first part again, feel free to skip ahead. If you didn’t read the last chapter, I’d advise you to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel
> 
> \- I got the idea for the alternate ending in the middle of writing the original ending, so I decided to write it. Hope you enjoy Michael’s sweet side.

As you sat in your bed, your room lit up with the warmness of the mid-afternoon sun and your open window let in a breeze. It was a beautiful day—the sun warmed your skin and the breeze cooled you—it was a pleasant contrast in feeling. 

You looked up onto your wall where the sun illuminated it and fell upon your painting of Michael. Even his eyes glowed dark chocolatey brown in the two-dimensional figure on your wall. The mask had beautiful detail, as to capture every specification of Michael’s mask. Each crease, shadow, and indent was perfected over and over to make sure you had the exact image of Michael. You remembered showing the painting to Michael and noted his reaction as he stared at it. Usually when Michael walks into the room, he glances at it, taking notice of his appearance, and then goes about his business. 

A random thought jumped into your head; the same thought you had while creating the painting. 

_What is it like to be Michael?_

The thought didn’t escape your mind. You sat there for moments pondering this question. How would it feel to be in the life of Michael Myers—behind the mask. You chuckled to yourself thinking about wearing Michael’s mask. How would it feel? What does Michael see everyday? Isn’t it _hot_? 

The floorboard creaked from your room and stopped your thoughts. You looked towards your door frame and saw the huge figure standing there. You smiled at Michael who stood almost completely still and stared at you. You locked your gaze with his and was mesmerized by his mask. You wanted to feel the textures of it, and reach out and touch him. 

Standing from your bed, you walked slowly over to Michael and maintained eye contact with him. The closer you got to him, the more you had to crane your neck to look at the 6’5 man, but you didn’t care. The strain on your neck was worth it, because the closer you got to him, the more visible the detail of his mask became. 

You stood as tall as you could, practically on your tippy-toes, and reached out your hand for Michael’s mask. It was smooth and rough at the same time, and the divots of his mask opposed the flatter spots—it reminded you of the warmth of the sun and the chill of the breeze, both working together to create an opposition of bliss. Your heart swelled as his eyes studied your face. Your fingers traced at the lines of his mask and slowly over his lips. You placed your palm flat against his cheek and swiped your thumb back and forth across his mask. Michael tilted his head towards your hand, and you couldn’t tell if it was because he was curious or tenderly pressing his head into your hand, or both. 

You stood off of your toes and slid your hand down to his chest, laying it flat against him. You could feel his heartbeat against your hand while listening to his breathing—slow and steady. You remained concentrated on his heartbeat and breathing, but Michael began to grow tired of standing, and took your hand off of his chest. He began to walk out of the room and your eyes followed him as he left. 

~•~•~•~•~•~

“He's going to kill me,” you chuckled while looking at your laptop screen on your desk. 

The screen illuminated your dark room as you searched for exactly what you wanted. And you found it. It was an exact replica of Michael’s mask. You debated whether or not to buy it, thinking over how Michael would react to it. Honestly, you wanted to buy it just to see what he would do. You clicked “Add to Cart” and then finalized your order. As soon as you did it anxiety and excitement rushed through you. With all of the things you put Michael through, this certainly would have to be the last. 

You are so dead.   
  


~•~•~•~•~•~

You sat at your kitchen table eating breakfast while Michael was sitting in the seat across from you. You were about to ask Michael if he wanted something to eat, but the doorbell rang, cutting you off. Michael glanced at you questioningly. He knew that you hardly got any visitors, unless it was Girl Scouts trying to sell you cookies or people trying to get you to buy their product. 

“Probably some random guy,” you said to Michael getting up from your seat. 

You almost forgot about the item you bought a month or so back, but when you opened the door and saw the brown box on your porch mat, the realization hit you. You thought at this point it never would have come because of how long it took to arrive, so the mask was put at the back of your mind after about two weeks of waiting. 

You picked up the box and hurried up the stairs to your room before Michael could question you. You placed the box in your closet for later when Michael went out at night, so you could open the box in secret. 

You decided that when you opened the package tonight that you would try the mask on and decide when would be the best time to display it to Michael. Best case scenario is he doesn’t react badly. Worst case scenario—he does. 

You headed back downstairs and finished your breakfast at the table while Michael just stared at you—seemingly figuring out what exactly you seemed to be hiding. You stood up and went to the sink to dispose of your plate, and when you turned around, Michael was gone from the table. You walked into the living room expecting him to be there, but he wasn’t. 

You started heading towards your room up the stairs, worried that Michael got curious. Sometimes you loved Michael curiosity, but sometimes he was too curious. You slowly headed toward your room’s doorway, and was almost certain Michael was in there.

**[If you read the last chapter, this is where the chapter is different]**

You reached your room and saw your closet was wide open, and in the middle of your room was an open box with packing peanuts splayed over the floor. Michael stood there holding the mask towards you in his hand staring at you as if he was disappointed in you. 

“I uh—it’s not what it looks like?” You chuckled nervously. He shook his head no at you. 

“No? What do you mean no?” 

Michael gestured the mask towards you and shook his head slower. You were still confused with what he was trying to say, and it showed on your face. He took the mask and threw it back into the box and took a few steps closer to you. You tensed a bit, unsure of his intentions. He looked down at you for a moment before grabbing your hand. He pulled your hand up to his face and leaned down slightly so you could reach. 

“Oh,” you realized now what he was trying to say.

You smiled up at him and your heart filled with warmth and love for him. You looked down at his hand and took it into yours, holding it for a minute before placing his hand on your cheek like he did for you. You could feel the warmth of his hand on your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused. He was imperfectly perfect. Another oxymoron about him that made him even more beautiful. 

You didn’t need another mask to know what it was like to be Michael. He was right here, in front of you, and that’s all you needed. 

“I love you Michael,” you pulled Michael’s face more towards you to reach him and placed a loving kiss on his forehead. He swiped his thumb once across your cheek and then fully stood up, looking down at you. Abruptly, Michael’s stomach growled. It was nearly noon and he hadn’t eaten yet, and knowing his eating habits, that’s a pretty long time. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” you chuckled.

Michael began to head out the door and you started to head out with him, but stopped, remembering the mask. You turned and headed towards the box, cleaning up the packing peanuts and placing the mask back inside the package, then closed it. You placed the box back into your closet and closed the door. 

“I may need this for something sometime,” you said to yourself, giggling, and headed back downstairs to Michael. 


	8. Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader feels extremely lonely and wonders if Michael feels this way, too, deciding to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I know a lot of people are probably feeling really lonely right now, so I wrote this to acknowledge Michael’s lonely situation, because even the Shape needs a friend.

As you stared up at the old Myers’ house, you weren’t sure what exactly you were getting yourself into. One thing was for certain though: you had never felt so lonely. The distance between you and your friends had tripled, leaving you feeling helpless with no one to talk to and hang out with, not to mention the fact that you basically had no family anymore; your mom was a drunk, too addicted to even care for herself, and your father was never around. You guessed that all this was why you found yourself on the front porch of a serial killer’s home.

The house had sat visibly vacant for years after the whole incident with Michael Myers—the young boy turned psychopath that lived here; he killed his older sister, Judith, and they locked him up in some sanitarium somewhere, which was all you needed to know since the real killings happened 15 years later. You remembered that Halloween night like it was yesterday, learning of Michael’s escape, soon hearing all the victims’ names on the tv, your 18 year old self praying to God that he wouldn’t come for you, too.

Michael’s whereabouts had been unknown for the past two years, and the friendly people of Haddonfield speculated that he was in fact living secretly in his old house. Some even reported seeing him walking around at night, knife in hand, figuring out who he’d be targeting next. For so long this had always scared you, but after all the crap in your life went down not too long ago, you couldn’t help but wonder about Michael.

The thought first popped into your head after a fight with your drunk mother. You heavily dropped onto your bed and stopped yourself from calling one of your friends to confide in them. _They wouldn’t care_ , you thought, and then the weight of loneliness set upon your shoulders. You started to ponder the very idea of loneliness, and as you fell deeper into your mind, a thought of Michael intruded.

You wondered if he felt alone.

You laughed out loud at that. The Shape of Haddonfield, Illinois? _Lonely?_ You shook your head.

Yet you couldn’t get the thought out of your mind.

You knew after a bit of research that his treatment at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium was not decent at all, and the fact that he was there for 15 years didn’t help. All you’ve ever heard about him was that he’s a monster. Pure evil. However, you also knew that after awhile of being told you are something, or are a certain way, you start to believe it. You start to become what others say you are.

Since that day, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Michael Myers.

You guessed that was why you wound up on his front porch, reaching for the knob to his front door.

You slowly opened the wooden door and winced at the painfully long creak it made as you opened it further. You stepped inside and carefully shut the door behind you, leaning back against it and looking around the old and crumbling interior in front of you.

You decided to explore further after waiting for any sign that you weren’t alone and getting none.

Almost every floorboard beneath you squeaked, each time making you cringe harder at your lack of stealth. As you neared the living room, you suddenly felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand, sending goosebumps down your spine—not from the cold; you felt the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

You reluctantly began to turn around to look behind you, your breath staggering, your heart pounding. When you saw behind you, however, there was nothing there.

You swallowed dryly. “Michael?” you called, your voice small.

Nothing.

You stepped further into the living room, careful not to back into one of the couches covered with a white sheet.

“Michael, I’m not here to hurt you, or to—tell... on you...” you said with a shaky voice, inwardly cursing at how stupid you probably sounded. “I’m just here to talk,” you corrected yourself, hoping that you weren’t still sounding like an idiot.

Still nothing.

You sighed, releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You were about to turn around and leave, the disappointment you felt surprising you. But suddenly, you heard a floorboard creak from behind you.

You turned.

There stood Michael Audrey Myers, a 6’5” bulk of a man who had to be made up of pure muscle. You could feel his stare through the black holes of his white mask, the only defining thing about him. His stance was predatory, his arms tensed at his sides, his large hand firmly gripping a kitchen knife glimmering in the moonlight shining through the window.

You gulped.

“I-I wanted to just talk to you, not about the-the uh... the murdering...” _Wow, if he didn’t think you were an idiot before, he definitely does now_ , you thought, looking down at the ground, sighing at how hopeless it was for you to be talking to a serial killer and be kept alive.

The stab to your chest that you were sure would come now never came. You looked back up at him, finding that he had tilted his head, his posture slightly less menacing.

This encouraged you. “It’s actually kinda sad—I mean— _you’re_ not sad, _I’m_ the sad one here, er—unless maybe you are sad, are you sad? I’m sorry I’ve never really conversed with someone who’s like you—I’m not trying to call you a monster or—something, I was just feeling lonely and wanted to talk to someone,” you finished your ramble, completely embarrassed. 

His stance had tensed up once more and he seemed like he was on the verge of stabbing you, annoyed at how much you talked, but still had a slight interest in you.

So he let you continue.

You knew you weren’t going to get anywhere like this, you were a complete and utter mess. But you couldn’t go back now. You took in a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself, but let out a little laugh on the way out.

Michael tilted his head again.

“I’m just gonna start over. Hi, my name is (y/n), and recently I’ve been feeling really, um, alone? Cut off? And I couldn’t help but think about you,” you finally admitted. “I wouldn’t ever want to assume anything about you, but I just couldn’t help but wonder—I felt like I needed company, and wondered if maybe you wanted some company, too.”

Now Michael was confused. _What were you talking about? And did you seriously come to him about your loneliness?_ He didn’t understand. He’d never really seen himself as _lonely_ , although he was _alone_. He’d grown accustomed to the constant silence of his old house, the occasional noise of the house settling around him. Sometimes a group of teens would come by, completely drunk and daring each other to “go inside! Just touch the door or something!” He’d lay in his bed, listening to them, and shake his head at them knowing full well they wouldn’t. They were all so stupid, and it became quite the comfort to him—the idea that he’d never actually be overpowered. The thought almost made him want to laugh.

Now you were here, a strange and awkward young girl talking to him about loneliness, and not running away from the sight of him with his knife.

A small part of him wanted to relax. The fact that you weren’t as frightened of him as seemingly everybody else made him feel... something he couldn’t put a name to. He didn’t mind people screaming with fear at the sight of him, quivering at the mere mention of his name; fear only made people weak, making things easier for him. But as he watched you, he found that you were different. Different from everybody else.

He slowly set down his knife.

You watched him slowly return to his previous stance, except you could tell he had relaxed a bit. You couldn’t believe you had actually gotten this far. Michael Myers, _here_ , _listening to you_. You had to be dreaming.

“Um,” you stuttered, not really knowing where to go from here.

He tilted his head at you.

Then a realization hit you: this was the most acknowledgment you’ve gotten in a very, very long time, and it was by a homicidal maniac.

You suddenly felt weak, a sickness hitting your stomach like you had in fact been stabbed by the masked killer in front of you, a horrible numbness washing over your whole body so bad you had to lean against the wall behind you for support. This man, this murderer, had given you more attention than anyone these past few months, and he hasn’t even spoken to you.

You looked back up at Michael, still staring intently at you, studying. You smiled sadly at him. “I don’t have anybody either,” you told him, your voice quivering. You fought in vain against a tear in your eye; it slowly rolled down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away.

Michael didn’t understand why you were getting upset. People had always been such a burden to him, and that was one of the reasons why he liked being alone. The more he thought about your situation, he realized that people normally were never alone; everyone was always with their friends, or their family. So what was wrong with you?

You took a deep breath. “Nobody cares about me,” you quietly stated. “All of my friends seem to have distanced themselves from me, and I have no idea why or what I did wrong, and I don’t know how to make it better because now it just feels impossible to talk to them. And then there’s my mom, always too drunk to even notice she has a daughter, and when she does, _I’m_ suddenly her problem, not the alcohol she’s constantly shoving down her throat. It’s not like anyone’s stopping her, she never listens to me and I don’t even know where the hell my dad is to help my mom grow the hell up and actually live her life outside of a fucking beer bottle,” you finished, your volume having risen along with your temper, leaving the silence throughout the house with the subtle resounding sound of your voice.

You hadn’t meant for this little visit to turn into a therapy session with the Shape, but you didn’t realize just how much you needed to get everything off of your chest. After all, he was listening to you, and the fact that he hadn’t picked up his knife let you know he wasn’t going to kill you, even if you really, really wanted to die at this point; here you stood, tears streaming down your face, your chest still heavy with all the pain you felt.

Suddenly Michael took a step towards you. Your tear filled eyes shot up to him and you watched through your blurred vision as he slowly made his way over to you. He stopped not too far from you, looking down at your small, hurting form, studying you.

For some reason, he felt a pang of anger towards your parents and friends. Seeing you in front of him—a mess of emotions—made him feel irritated at the fact that the people in your life were causing you so much pain that you were driven to go to _him_. He didn’t think it was possible for someone to hurt this badly.

So as he watched another large tear gather in one of your (e/c) eyes, threatening to spill, he let himself cautiously reach out and tenderly wipe away the tear from your cheek when it fell, his rough finger hovering ever so slightly on your skin before his hand dropped back down to his side.

You both stood like that for awhile, gazing into each other’s eyes, both thinking about different things, but still grounded by the other.

Michael soon concluded that he would have to keep an eye on you as you went through your daily life in order to better understand you, and with that, he turned and briskly walked back to his knife, picked it up, and gave you a once over before heading upstairs to his room, leaving you with your thoughts, and the faint warmth that still lingered on your cheek from his gentle touch.

You had no idea what just happened, or why he had listened to you, let alone let you live. You couldn’t believe how softly he had reacted to your tears, enough to give you the small comfort of wiping one away. And though you didn’t necessarily get your answer of if Michael Audrey Myers, the Shape of Haddonfield, Illinois was lonely, you couldn’t believe how much lighter you felt after talking to him about _your_ loneliness.

The cool midnight breeze that hit your skin as you stepped out onto his front porch dried away your remaining tears and the sweat that had gathered on your body from your heated rant. You took a few deep breaths to ensure that you were calm and would stay calm before you started your dreaded walk back home, not before glancing back at Michael’s home one last time.

You didn’t know if this had been your only “nice” evening with the Shape, and if the next time you showed up, he’d kill you, but you kinda liked being around him—you know, after the knife left his hand. You knew you’d probably be back, and hoped that he’d be just as accepting of you and your presence as he seemed to be tonight. You let out a little laugh; if Michael had been lonely before, if he let you live, he certainly wouldn’t be lonely anymore.

Even the Shape deserved a friend.


	9. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is afraid of thunderstorms and has to endure the anxiety until Michael comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I absolutely hate thunderstorms and have a hard time relaxing when one’s going on, so I started to wonder how Michael would deal with someone who’s afraid of thunderstorms.

You were suddenly jolted awake by a loud crack of thunder, your house shaking around you from the rumble. You immediately started to shake, your heart racing, and your breaths coming in quick gasps. You quickly smashed your hands against your ears as hard as you could in an attempt to lessen the sounds from the storm.

You hated thunderstorms. _Hated them_.

Loud sounds had always set you on edge, and it especially made you anxious when there was no way of knowing when the loud sound would happen—such as when a flash of lightening illuminated your dark room, the only thing you could do was plug your ears and wait, praying it wouldn’t be that loud.

You glanced over at the other side of your bed, only to find it empty; Michael had gone out again. Well now that it was storming, you knew he’d return soon—he hated getting wet.

You anxiously waited for him to come through the bedroom door with the side of your head pressed firmly against your pillow, the exposed side covered by your hands, tightly protecting your ear from the loud claps of thunder outside.

Finally, Michael burst through your bedroom door, completely drenched, and visibly not happy. You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, muffled by your pillow, at the sight of him. “I told you it was supposed to rain tonight,” you reminded him, to which he only shot you a glare in response as he walked to your closet.

When he emerged from the closet, he held his extra pair of coveralls in his arms, and headed straight towards the bathroom down the hall, wasting no time turning on the warm shower. You sighed with disappointment; Michael took his precious time in the bathroom, and you could just see your water bill rising from the long showers he took. And while you loved a clean Michael anyways, you needed him now. You knew he didn’t understand your anxiety—it was just a simple thunderstorm—but he reluctantly allowed you to cling to him, burying your head into his chest, hoping for some form of comfort.

Many minutes passed and your uncomfortable state had grown worse; you were still shaking, but now your arms were tired from how hard you were covering your ears, and you found it very hard to keep your eyes open from how exhausted you were, yet you couldn’t fall asleep because you weren’t relaxed whatsoever. And now you were silently crying, praying for the storm to go away.

Every flash of lightening you could see even with your eyes closed from how bright it was, and with every crack of thunder, you couldn’t help but flinch, burrowing yourself deeper into your mattress and pillow in anticipation of the resounding noise.

And Michael was still in the goddamn shower.

At this point you were practically laying in a pool of your sweat, too frozen in place to move to readjust for fear that a boom would sound when you weren’t prepared with your ears covered. You hated that you were like this, but it had always been this way for as long as you could remember. And you never got better because your parents didn’t make a move to comfort you, or help you find a better way to deal with the clamor, even when you would come to them for solace in the middle of the night. “Just sleep on the couch,” they’d tell you and immediately fall back to sleep, leaving you feeling helpless and afraid with tears smeared across your face.

Michael hardly paid you any mind when you were filled with anxiety, and you expected that from him, but he still let you hold onto him and use him to ground you, and that was really all you needed you guessed. You’d never known a lot of comfort in your life, and Michael was not one to give it to you, but he tolerated you and your needs, and that was probably the most you’d get from him.

Your tears stopped flowing and your body suddenly relaxed slightly when you felt the bed dip next to you. You opened your eyes to find Michael had returned, wearing his warm and dry coveralls with the top half around his waist, revealing a just as dry black t-shirt, surely to keep himself cooler in the heat of your room from the summer atmosphere outside.

You quickly scooted closer to him, trying and failing to muffle the sound with your ears as you moved when a particularly loud crash greeted you, sending you into another bout of panic, your heart pounding in your ribcage and your throat completely closed up.

But your anxiety was faintly quelled as a soothing warmth engulfed your shaky form. You realized Michael had wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his firm chest. One arm held your back against his strong figure while the other curled around your head, holding it against him and allowing his hand to hold the exposed side, completely covering your now sore ear. This let you cautiously pull your arms away from your head and slowly wrap them around Michael’s muscular torso. He held your head firmly but gently, enough to block out the majority of the thunderous noise that shook your house, but enough to keep you comfortable.

You sank into his heat and allowed it to calm you, listening to his steady heartbeat and letting that be the sound you focused on, not the thunderstorm outside.

You don’t know how long the storm lasted, because you fell asleep almost instantly from Michael’s comforting hold. You also weren’t surprised when you woke up to the bright morning sun shining through your blinds finding that Michael was gone. His actions last night were completely unexpected, but you couldn’t help but feel your love for him bloom within your chest from the thought of what he did.

Michael didn’t really know what elicited his response to your anxiety last night, but it must’ve worked leaving him with the knowledge that holding you helped you. He himself didn’t know if he liked all the contact, but it made you stop shaking, crying, and soaking the bed with your sweat. Yeah he wouldn’t be sleeping next to you until he was sure you changed your sheets. So he decided he’d let it go for now, and if the time came when you had another panic attack, he’d try to hold you again, just to see if it really worked.

He’d never been comforted like that, but he’d seen people do it with their lovers or family while he was stalking his prey. He figured if it kept you calm and quiet, he may allow it. But until then, he would hope that there wouldn’t be another thunderstorm, and he would definitely listen to you the next time you said there might be be rain.


	10. Body Slamming the Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is determined to tackle the Shape of Haddonfield to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I personally would love to tackle Michael, whether it’s just simple roughhousing or actually trying to knock him over, I bet it’d be super fun yet intense because he could still snap your neck with two of his fingers.

This was it. You were definitely going to get him this time.

You had been trying to knock over Michael Myers at least once, just to prove that he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was, but it had turned out that trying to do this was like trying to knock down the Berlin Wall.

But you were persistent.

You had learned from all your previous failed attempts that there needed to be some sort of an element of surprise. While jumping on him from behind caught him slightly off balance, your footsteps running towards him let him know beforehand that you were going at it again; he‘d never fall. Trying to pounce on him from the front also did you no good, because each time he hardly moved. He’d either ignore your small, hopeless form wrapped around his upper body and continue what he was doing, put his hands under your arm pits to pry you off and toss you aside, orrr slam you against a wall and have his way with you.

No matter how many bruises you received from hitting the ground, or how many times you were treated like you were nothing compared to him, you were determined to tackle Michael Myers to the ground.

That’s how you wound up crouched on top of your tall dresser in your bedroom, ready to jump down on him as soon as he entered the room.

You waited awhile, and your legs started to hurt from remaining in the same, cramped up position on a hard surface. You could hear the faint sound of the tv downstairs, so you knew he had to be home. It’d been about 30 minutes of waiting and you were getting antsy. You decided to try to prompt him to come to your room.

You opened up one of your drawers, pulled out a bunch of bras, balled them up the best you could, and chucked them across the room at your nightstand, completely missing the alarm clock you were aimed at, and instead hitting a cup of water which knocked over and rolled over onto the ground, spilling water everywhere. 

“ _Shit_ ,” you breathed. You looked at the mess you made, analyzing whether or not the clamor you made with the flying bras and cup crashing to the floor was enough to lure Michael upstairs.

5 minutes passed. Still nothing.

You let out a groan.

You reached for the same drawer, only finding one bra left. So you opened the drawer next to it and were greeted with pairs of underwear. Sighing, you grabbed a handful of them, balled them up, and wrapped your last bra around it. Then, you catapulted your makeshift cannonball across the room at your desk successfully swiping half of its contents on the surface to a crash on the ground.

You winced; you now had quite the mess to clean up, but you still hoped the light crashing sounds were enough to catch Michael’s attention.

Downstairs, Michael heard strange sounds coming from upstairs. _The hell were you doing?_ Normally, he could care less what you were up to, but you’d been up there for awhile. His curiosity got the better of him and he decided to go see what you were doing.

Just when you were about to give up and start ripping out the drawers themselves and tossing them to the ground, you heard the floorboards of your stairs creaking. You let out a quiet laugh and readied yourself for the moment he’d walk through the door.

You watched with horrible anticipation as the doorknob turned and the door slowly squeaked open. You saw a large boot step into the room, then a massive 6’5” shape slide in, obviously confused by all the crap that riddled your floor by how he was looking around at the mess you made.

You grinned deviously; he hadn’t noticed you from how he was trying to make sense of all the bras and pairs of underwear everywhere, so you still had your precious element of surprise. And with that, you jumped, launching yourself onto him and hitting the muscular bulk of a man hard enough to emit an _oomf_ from him, which was the most you’ve gotten. With you practically hugging his neck and your legs wrapped around his chest, he stumbled back, clearly not expecting you to crash into him.

Score.

Michael’s back was met with the wall behind him, your head smacking against the barrier as well, the loud thud resounding throughout the room.

Then there was silence.

You slowly loosened your grip around Michael’s neck so you could pull back to face him, still leaning against the wall. You both looked at each other, and you found that you couldn’t figure out the look in his eyes.

To hopefully lighten the mood, you said “ow,” and then laughed. Your head really did hurt from how hard the wall hit it.

And Michael’s form seemed to relax ever so slightly.

With his calmer state, you could finally read the look in his eyes, and it was: _seriously?_ You could tell he was over you trying to knock him over, and the lengths you were going to to achieve this was starting to annoy him. Why couldn’t you just accept that you were the weak one here? You couldn’t ever have any sort of dominance over him. That’s just how it was, and he didn’t know why you wanted to prove that fact wrong.

He looked past you back at everything strewn across your floor. You too looked to your side to see the evidence of your attempts to bring Michael upstairs and cringed, looking back into Michael’s chocolatey brown eyes to find him looking at you with irritation. “Yeahhh,” you sighed. You could just feel Michael inwardly rolling his eyes at you.

Michael had to admit, he was amused at just how badly you wanted to tackle him. In the end, it made him feel stronger and you look weaker, and that difference made it easier for him to want to stay here with you. He hated the idea of you having too much power over him.

So here you were.

You heard him let out a faint, deep sigh before he pushed himself from the wall, still holding you against him with his one arm around your lower back and carrying you to your bed where he dropped you. He then turned and picked up a few of your bras laying nearby and tossed them onto your stomach. As you sat up with the bras on your lap, you looked up at Michael who gave you a look over his shoulder as he turned around to leave. You understood that he expected you to clean up your mess as he shut the door behind him, leaving you alone with a slight smirk on your face.

After fixing up your room, you went downstairs to go see Michael, finding him sitting on your couch watching tv. You plopped yourself down next to him and looked over at him.

“I promise I won’t try to tackle you anymore,” you chuckled. After a moment’s silence, you added, “but only because I’ll be moving onto trying to tickle you.” 

At this, he looked over at you with a glare. You couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m kidding!” You said, but Michael didn’t believe you. You needed to be shown who was the boss here, who was stronger, more dominant.

So he stood up, picked you up, and threw you over his shoulder where he carried you upstairs to your room, ignoring your laughter and pleas to be let down. He was going to make you understand that he was Michael Myers—he wouldn’t be pushed around by a small, helpless girl. As for you, you were happy to let him show you who was in charge.

You just hoped after you went through with trying to tickle the Shape anyways that the treatment he’d give you afterwards would be just as wonderfully intense.


	11. Your Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader teaches Michael piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- The idea of Michael Myers playing piano is quite an interesting one. So I decided to write about it.

Melodies filled the atmosphere as your fingers danced across your piano, each note singing perfectly with the others. Your chest swelled with the music you could physically feel running through your veins. With eyes closed, you allowed yourself to move with the piece, completely unaware of the menacing presence behind you, watching you intently.

You finished the song with a smile, putting your hands in your lap and taking deep breaths.

Music had always been a huge part of your life. It became such a comfort for you whenever you needed it. When your parents were fighting, it was there for you. When your friends ditched you for some party, it was there for you. When you were alone, music was there for you.

You taught yourself how to play piano by flipping through “Piano for Beginners” books and watching an occasional lesson on YouTube. And now you were confident enough to say that you had a talent for piano.

You began going through some of your other pieces, settling on “Un Sospiro” by Liszt. As you set up to start playing, you felt a familiar tingle on the back of your neck, and the ambience around you grew heavier. Even though your conscience was screaming at you to turn around, you pushed all your thoughts aside as you got into position to begin the piece before you.

As soon as you started to play, you got lost in the music once more.

Michael Myers watched you play your piano. He knew nothing about music, but seeing you play made it seem easy. He’d never known anyone to have such a connection to music, and you intrigued him because of that. He himself had never appreciated music. They’d occasionally play quiet classical music over the intercom in the sanitarium, but he hadn’t liked it, and now he hated it because it reminded him of that... place. But your music was different. He concluded that it must be you yourself that made the music more enjoyable to him; he’s heard other people’s music and it was either too loud and obnoxious or just background noise, so he didn’t like it, but with you, music came to life.

So he let you live. He wanted to keep _your_ music alive.

After a couple minutes of watching you becoming closer and closer to the piece singing from your piano, he started to move closer to you to have a better view of your hands gliding across the black and white keys. It was all so mesmerizing to him. The trance you were able to put him in with not only the music you played but the music you sang frustrated him because at times he’d become so lost in you that it made him vulnerable.

And though Michael did not like to feel vulnerable, for this, he made an exception.

At this point, Michael was so close to you that if you leaned just a centimeter more than you already were, you’d bump into him. Yet you never noticed the huge Shape next to you.

It wasn’t until you reached the end of the piece, heart racing, breathing heavy, that you realized who was standing right beside you.

You jumped with a slight gasp. Clutching your chest, you looked up to the large man looking down at you with a slight tilt to his head. “Hi Michael, didn’t know you were there,” you laughed.

Michael inwardly scoffed. And he thought your music made _him_ vulnerable.

“You ever played piano?” you asked. You realized that it was a stupid question to ask him because of the look he gave you. You chuckled, “No, guess not...”.

You shifted awkwardly beneath Michael’s scrutiny for a couple seconds before scooting over and offering him a seat on the piano bench next to you.

He reluctantly took it.

You couldn’t help the slight shiver that crept up your figure from his closeness to you, the warmth of his body radiating off of him soothing your nerves.

“I taught myself how to play piano,” you told him. “It was pretty easy at first, it’s when you add the second hand that it starts getting tricky,” you explained as you rested your hands in C position on the keyboard. “This is C—“ you pressed down with your thumb on the key it was rested on, “—this is D—“ again playing the note for him, going over the other three as you moved each of your fingers, “—this is E, F, and G.” You looked up from your hand at him, finding that he was watching your fingers attentively.

You felt yourself smile.

Clearing your throat as you looked away from Michael, you asked, “Would you like to try?”

He looked up at you, his eyes almost seemed to hold surprise, along with what you thought was a look saying _no way_. You figured he wouldn’t. It was a stupid offer, so you busied yourself with putting away the pieces you’d been playing, hoping to kill the awkwardness, when a slow movement caught your attention out of the corner of your eye. You looked over at the large Shape beside you, following his arm down to the hand he had rested on the piano keys.

You didn’t want to drive him away by getting overexcited that Michael Myers, The Shape of Haddonfield, Illinois, was interested in learning piano. So you shoved down your emotions, sat up straight, and after clearing your throat once more, you said “alright,” and inwardly cringed at how breathy it came out.

You started by slowly reaching for his hand, feeling his eyes on you the whole time as you helped him correctly position his hand on the keys. “It helps to try to picture yourself holding a ball or a bubble underneath your hand to keep it arched,” you commented.

His eyes remained fixed on your hand touching his when you looked over at him to see if he was comprehending what you were saying.

You continued to press down lightly on all five of his fingers, saying the note name with each key that sang out. When he only kept his stare on your hand, you grew skeptical that he was actually paying attention to you, so you took your hand away and asked him to play a D. His gaze seemed to falter before he turned his focus to the keys before him, and after a minute of you patiently waiting with a knowing smile, you heard a G cut through the silence between you.

“That’s a G, Michael,” you informed him, still smiling.

He quickly glanced over at you then back at his hand. He then tried another note, pressing down on the E key.

“That would be an E,” you replied to his second wrong note, to which he immediately went for another note, hitting an F. “That’s an F, big guy,” you chuckled.

You could tell Michael was about to let out a frustrated grunt before he then played a confident C. You laughed in response and put your hand over his once more. “This—“ you played the D key his first finger was resting on “—is a D, bud,” you told him. “But I’m glad you were successfully able to navigate the keys!” you praised, your voice teasing, trying to suppress your laughter.

His glare cut daggers into you, and you quickly looked away from him and went back to educating him so as to not anger The Shape further. You went over each note again for him, and this time he seemed to be paying more attention to you and not on your hand that lightly hovered over his own.

You began explaining chords to him, and you showed him how playing the notes C, E, and G, or pressing down fingers 1, 3, and 5, sounded a C chord. You then demonstrated, your fingers pressing down on his gently to create a quiet C chord.

You smiled over at him.

By the time you returned your gaze to your hands, the chord had died away, leaving you suddenly aware of the feeling of your hand overtop of Michael’s. You tried to keep talking about the notes on the piano to chase away your thoughts about how rough the back of his hand was, and how you wanted to simply feel its texture with the tips of your fingers. Even trying to throw in some music theory here and there to possibly take your mind off the fact that his hand was so warm compared to your cold, and now slightly shaky hand—wasn’t working.

You slowly turned your head to his, not being able to control the pull you felt towards him. You met his dark gaze upon you, and you started to feel your words becoming heavy in your mouth as you tried in vain to voice them. In one last desperate attempt to not completely lose yourself in The Shape’s black eyes, swimming in darkness, you asked, “Why don’t you try again... to play... D...”.

It wasn’t enough.

You felt yourself slipping as you fell deeper and deeper into those emotionless orbs, searching as you did so for a glimpse of light brown bleeding through, possibly made exposed by the light of the setting sun outside your window. The warmth of his hand, the roughness of each of his fingers as your own slipped in between his, lightly intertwined, your hand still covering his, and his steady, deep breaths emitting from his mask all pulled you closer to him. You could feel the intensity of his eyes studying you, first your (e/c) orbs, and after completely dissecting every part of you, from what felt like your very soul to the colors painting your eyes themselves—he slowly moved his gaze down to your lips, now slightly parted, breath hardly escaping past them.

You yearned for him, for the feel of his body, his lips against yours, and for more than just his eyes. You felt yourself physically falling towards him, the distance between you both diminishing, and just as you were about to find that slight tint to his eyes, when you were _almost there_ , when you could _just faintly_ see that color hidden within the dark canvases beneath his mask, a loud G sliced through the heavy atmosphere that had engulfed you, causing you to faintly jump and realize how numb you were to the physical world around you as Michael kept watching you, waiting.

You remembered as you began to register the growing impatience forming in the new look he was giving you that you had asked him to play a D. You laughed as you looked away from him, embarrassed and flustered, and you said, “that was a G again.”

Michael abruptly stood, pulling his hand out from underneath yours and walking towards the door, clearly done with this interaction.

You couldn’t help but grin. “That’s okay, you’ll get it next time!” you called after him, and you caught him turn and give you a look just before turning down the hall and out of your sight.

In a dream, you finished putting away your music and sat looking out the window, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. You couldn’t believe Michael let you teach him the basics of piano. He still had a lot to learn obviously, but that was only _if_ he decided to continue his lessons—or whatever had just happened...

His warmth still lingered on the palm of your hand, and you sighed deeply at the memory of the close proximity he had had to you.

You closed your eyes. You were so deeply in love with that man.

You laughed to yourself as you stood to make dinner.


	12. A Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is struggling with depression and self-esteem, and Michael doesn’t know how to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- Times get really tough sometimes, but Michael’s here for you—in his own way.

Walking into your warm and cozy home was the best feeling you’d had all day, even if it wouldn’t last long. Your muscles ached from the long, mentally exhausting twelve hours you went through. You were so tired, and numb, and all you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and stop existing.

“Michael? I’m home,” you tried to call as loudly as you could, pushing through the weakness you felt.

You got no response.

You let out a tired chuckle; of course Michael wouldn’t respond.

Just another person who doesn’t acknowledge you.

Your purse fell from your shoulder, and you didn’t bother to pick it up and put it in its usual spot. You carelessly kicked off your shoes as you made your way to your living room; you couldn’t bring yourself to move your fatigued body up the stairs to your room. You fell back onto the couch and sat there, sinking into the cushions, and not bothering to turn on the tv to help numb your mind.

The events from earlier flooded your thoughts once more, consuming you, and being greeted by new thoughts that explained those situations in ways that only hurt you. _So stupid_. Even if they were little things that didn’t even matter. _They’d all be better off without you_. You try your best to be a good worker, a good friend. _Nobody cares about you_. Nothing is enough.

You felt a warm tear slide down your cheek, the only physical feeling you were able to sense all day.

Wanting to at least get more comfortable if you were going to be living on the couch for the next couple hours, you slowly moved to lay on your side, curling your knees and arms to your chest, thinking it too much trouble to move the pillow next to you under your head. And so you laid there, your mind and body being weighed down by all the thoughts clouding your head and pulling you away from whatever reality you thought you were in.

You didn’t know how long it was until you faintly wondered when Michael would be home, or if he was home in the first place. If he was it was obvious he could care less about your presence, which you figured he didn’t. Why would he? He was Michael Myers.

Why would he ever care about you.

Why would anyone care about you.

In that moment you wanted nothing more than to stop existing. You’d been wanting to curl up in a ball in a corner all day and let the world go on around you while you slowly backed out of it. It’s what everybody wanted, right? And now that you could finally freely do that, the true pain that had been eating at you not just today, but every day, for _years_ now—engulfed your feeble, hopeless form. But this is what they wanted. It’s what they all wanted.

So now it was what you wanted, too.

When Michael quietly entered through the back door, he was eager to find what you had made for dinner and left sitting out for his return. He had always secretly liked your cooking and the fact that you cared enough to make him his own serving even when he wasn’t home—though he’d never admit it. He’d never been given that kind of consideration, but then he met you.

However, when he did not find any meal waiting to be reheated in a microwave by his spot at the table, he was slightly confused, but not enough to get annoyed that you didn’t feed him. That just meant the brand new tub of ice cream you bought would need to be replaced—it was Michael’s now.

With a freezing container of Cookies and Cream in one hand, and a spoon in the other, Michael made his way to your basement, where he’d be eating his dinner in peace away from the blaring sounds of your tv—

Michael stopped. The tv wasn’t on? He turned and stalked into the living room, finding a completely dark room and a very sad person burrowed into one end of the couch. He tilted his head down at you, not understanding why you were lying here in the dark without the tv on and still in your work clothes. He watched you, waiting for you to move, but you didn’t.

You could hear the faint sound of Michael’s breathing behind you, but you didn’t want to waste the energy trying to turn to look at him. Your limbs felt like lead, and even breathing seemed like it was too difficult.

To check if you were still alive, Michael reached down to lightly place the cold tub of ice cream against your cheek.

You flinched slightly at the feeling, but the freeze of the container hardly got through your barriers that completely numbed you.

Michael noticed the small movement from you but was not assuaged. He took the ice cream away from your cheek and held it against your forehead. This time, the more firmly placed cold that met your unfeeling skin penetrated the senselessness enveloping you; you moved your head away, whispering with whatever strength was still left in you, “stop”. Satisfied, he pulled away and plopped down next to you, deciding to eat his dinner here instead.

About half an hour went by. Michael had made a good dent in the tub of Cookies and Cream, and you still hadn’t moved. Michael looked over at you. Were you asleep? A closer look and he saw that your eyes were open, and the gaze they held was strikingly familiar to him.

Michael suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

He abruptly stood and after pulling his mask back down, went into the kitchen to put his ice cream away. When he returned to you in the living room, he stood in front of you, looking down at your frail, balled up form. You continued to stare blankly in front of you.

Michael slowly crouched down, resting on his haunches as he looked at you, wanting to see your eyes. But what he saw evoked in him an indistinct feeling he’d never felt before; your (e/c) eyes ceased to hold the warmth and shine they always did, and were instead replaced with dull, lifeless ones. And worst of all, they refused to look at him.

Michael couldn’t tell what this emotion was but he was certain that it was triggered by the indistinguishable look in your eyes. He knew that look all too well; it was one that he’d been told his eyes held.

Michael was not one to feel things, and this never bothered him. That was just how he was, and quite frankly, it made things easier for him. But now he was feeling an obscure mix between anger and... pain? He needed to know if someone had done this to you, and he needed to understand why you appeared so dead inside. You weren’t supposed to look like that—he didn’t _want_ you to look like that.

This was not you.

This was him.

As you remained motionless, you tried not to look at the large Shape staring intently at you. You didn’t want to feel the pain it would cause to see him. Didn’t want to be reminded of how little you meant to others. To him.

But Michael wanted you to look at him.

He moved to his knees, enabling him to lean towards you. He was just inches away from your face now, and your eyes began to flutter in your attempt to maintain your averted gaze. You could feel his dark orbs studying you intensely, and against your will, you looked up at him.

Your breathing remained shallow, and you still wished you could just disappear, especially under Michael’s stare through the dark eyeholes of his mask. But looking past the shadows casted over his eyes, you found the deep brown that faintly glinted as he looked at you, even with no lights on.

You felt the tears you’d been holding back for so long just threatening to spill. You quickly looked away before they could so as to not cry in front of Michael. Though he would not pity you, you knew he’d judge you—think you’re weak. Maybe that’s why he was still here, living with you in the first place; to make you feel like the helpless crap you were. That’s what he did to his victims, wasn’t it? Maybe now that he’s clearly getting what he wants he’d be done with you and kill you.

And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

But the stab to your chest never came. The strong, warm hand never gripped your throat. Those eyes just looked at you.

And The Shape, for the first time, did not know what to do.

Not quite wanting to touch you, he leaned forward and lightly nudged your nose with the nose of his mask, prompting you to look up at him. You curled in further—your chin almost reaching your chest—resisting him. So he did it again, this time to your forehead. A quick and almost irritated sigh escaped your throat at the feeling of his latex nose on your skin; he was like a dog pawing at your arm for attention.

So you tilted your head back up, turning it slightly so you were face to face with him. You stopped breathing when you realized how close you were to him now: about an inch from his nose as he leaned over you—even on his knees he still towered over you like the giant he was.

You gulped.

You didn’t seem to understand that Michael wanted you to tell him why you were not acting like yourself. Like _his (y/n)_.

And Michael didn’t seem to understand that you didn’t want to tell him that he didn’t need to keep pretending. That he could just kill you already.

A part of you still wanted Michael though. You didn’t want him to go. You were so happy with him—you _loved_ him, and so you didn’t know why you started getting these stupid thoughts, the feeling of not mattering, and the belief that that was in fact the truth.

That you were a nobody.

You didn’t think it was possible to appear as small as you were, but you were doing it. You could hardly move, hardly breathe, hardly think. Not with The Shape’s intense gaze that held your saddened (e/c) eyes with his as he hovered over you.

Looking down at you, Michael thought back to the many hunts he’s been on after countless prey. None of them seemed as sad and pained as you did now. The lifelessness never left your eyes. And Michael did not want to see it. He hated it.

He didn’t want to kill you, even though he somehow was seeing a small part of you was kind of wishing to die. No, he couldn’t kill you; not only were you essential to him with the food, water, and shelter you provided him, but for the way you made him feel less like a monster, and more like a human. The way you talked did not annoy him—it intrigued him. The way you laughed, especially if he did something with a slight bit of humor attached to it—warmed him. He liked your stories, he liked when you sang, and of course there was your food.

So why did you seem so sad at the sight of him.

“I... I’m... sorry,” you croaked through tears. You felt that you needed to apologize a million times, and that even then, it wouldn’t be enough. And you _were_ sorry. Sorry for getting in people’s way, sorry for taking up people’s time. Sorry for existing.

You felt like a complete waste of space.

But Michael didn’t understand why you were sorry. Sorry for not making him dinner? Yeah _the hell_ , (y/n)? That was the only thing that would make sense. You did kind of fail him there. But it was nothing to cry over, and by no means nothing to curl-up-in-a-ball-and-appear-dead-to-the-world over. Yet here you were.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated over and over, your voice a raspy whisper as all of your tears betrayed you. You hated yourself. All of this was wrong— _you_ were wrong. How could you do this to him? He was a serial killer, a man without a heart, and here you were, crying and complaining on your couch being completely and utterly useless, not only to yourself, but to him.

Words could not describe how horrible you felt.

Michael only watched you, completely oblivious as to why you were crying and apologizing to him. Had you done something?

Michael didn’t know.

He did know, though, that seeing you like this and hearing your voice, broken and distressed, made the unknown feeling growing in his chest worse. Lifting one cautious hand, Michael gently placed his palm against your cheek, letting your tears run in between his fingers, and slowly wiping away a few here and there with the rough pad of his thumb. He rarely touched you; he was unsure of how it made him feel, and how it made you feel. But now he wanted to touch you, wanted to feel your soft skin against his to prove that some part of (y/n) was still there.

The feeling of Michael’s warm hand on your cheek made you cry more. How could he stand to touch you?

How could anyone.

You cried harder.

Your heart felt completely broken. You felt so weighed down you could hardly breathe through your tears, and found yourself occasionally gasping for breath. Everything hurt, and everything seemed to take too much energy—energy that you did not have—but you couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop feeling the way you were feeling. The thoughts wouldn’t go away and they didn’t seem like they would anytime soon.

And you somehow wanted more than just to stop existing.

You were desperate. Desperate for anything other than this pain, this terrible numbness. So you clung to the one thing that still remained, even through whatever pathetic episode you were having now, with a hand that touched you in the most tender way: Michael.

“M-Michael,” you cried with anguish as you pushed past the lead in your arms to extend them out to him. Without thinking, Michael, with some instinct inside of him, wrapped one arm behind your shoulders, tugging you to him. With his other arm wrapped around your hips, he gently pulled you off the couch and steadily leaned back into a sitting position, holding you between his legs firmly to his chest.

Your arms tightly grasped his shoulders and neck, holding onto him like it was the only way to bring you back to reality. All you wanted was to feel his solid form against your small, shaky one. You wanted to hold him and never let go, and you prayed that he’d let you.

Little did you know that Michael wanted to hold you too. Seeing your emotionless eyes mirroring his own caused him to feel a form of pain, and though very faint, it was enough to make him want to feel you in his arms, pressed against him to hopefully soothe this new and awful feeling.

Eventually, your body gave way to exhaustion, and your tears slowly dried against your cheeks as you fell asleep on Michael’s shoulder, your tight grip around him relaxing. Michael, without any voices disturbing his quiet mind, moved to cradle you to his chest so he could carry you to your bed. It was only when he laid you down in your bed, pulling your covers over you—that he felt his emotions had been satisfied.

He went to shower, hoping to wash away the last of what he saw of you—or of what _wasn’t_ you. He knew he’d have to continue to watch you to figure out why you were suddenly so sad and had clung to him so desperately. He also decided he’d follow you after you left for work so he could study your interactions with others, and most importantly, how they interacted with _you_.

Michael had many questions, but he couldn’t ask you, so he had to wait until you told him, and he knew you would.

When he came back into your room, you were curled up once more, except this time, more peacefully. Michael stood watching you sleep for a long time, studying every part of you, tracing the curves of your body underneath your blankets with his eyes, and examining the strands of (h/c) hair sprawled across your white pillow. After some time, Michael grew tired, too, and decided he would sleep next to you tonight.

He wanted you close to him.

Quietly crawling in bed behind you, he carefully wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. He laid his head against yours, taking in your scent through the nose of his mask, enjoying the feel of _you_ , and not what he saw on the couch downstairs.

Many things had attacked you that evening, all of which were mental, and were somehow able to control you physically, too. You weren’t sure how to fix everything, and maybe not everything could be fixed, but you wanted to try. If not for your coworkers, your friends, your family—for Michael. You prayed you made him feel somewhat content, that you gave him what he needed, whether it be basic necessities, comfort, or a friend.

You loved him, and you wanted him to be able to love you—or at least _accept_ you, too. You just hoped you were enough for him.

And to Michael, you were.


	13. Michael’s Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader bought a pie, and Michael is going to eat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- Pie is yummy.

“Michael, what do you want for dinner?”

Michael slowly stalked into the kitchen, the top part of his coveralls tied around his waist showing off a white tank top to keep from overheating in the hot summer weather.

“Hello beautiful boy,” you greet him happily as he stands next to your spot looking into the fridge with you. He only gives you a side glance at your words, the slight annoyance at your use of a new nickname gone as quick as it came; he was too hungry to brood.

You looked up at him, watching him study the contents of your refrigerator for anything that met his liking. Your eyes traveled down to the edge of his mask to his neck just barely visible beneath the latex. You found yourself tracing the shine of his collar bone protruding flawlessly from his skin, and then down to his shoulder. Its perfect curve along with the dark tan that painted it coaxed you to kiss it gently. Planting your lips against the warm and soft skin was hard to pull away from, but you resisted your urges and went back to finding a good meal for the both of you.

Michael simply ignored you, his empty stomach holding more control over him than anything you threw his way—

“I got pie,” you told him.

His eyes widened.

_You got... p-pie?_

Michael watched with horrible anticipation as you bent down to open up a drawer within your fridge, and pulled out a large cardboard box that he knew contained the heavenly crust and fruit filling all put together to make the wonderful food item known as pie.

His mouth watered as you set it out on the countertop and turned back to him, finding him staring at a loss at the dessert sitting behind you, just beckoning to him.

You chuckled. “But of course—we can’t have just _pie_ for dinner,” you told him.

Michael’s eyes snapped to you. _Why not?_

“What? It’s unhealthy! You already eat lots of crap as it is, and I hate to break it to you bud, but people won’t be as scared of a 600 lb. man chasing after them. You wouldn’t be able to get anywhere,” you said, channeling the most motherly voice you could.

However, Michael did not care. With three giant strides, he shoved you aside and grabbed the pie hiding behind your backside, waiting to be eaten. You yelped as your side roughly hit the counter and groaned with irritation as you watched the large 6’5” man waste no time in grabbing a fork and briskly exiting the kitchen, pie in hand.

“Michael Audrey Myers you are NOT eating that pie for dinner!” you yelled as you rounded the corner to catch him determinedly walking down the hall to your steps. As he turned to ascend them, he gave you a look over his shoulder. _Watch me._

“Alright,” you said, your game on.

You ran down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. When you reached the top, you found every door in the upstairs hallway to be closed. You rolled your eyes and huffed knowing you would have to find the Shape, who, unfortunately, was known for disappearing. You started with the closest door to you: the bathroom. _You can never be too sure_ , you told yourself, trying to ignore the absurd image of Michael Myers hiding in the shower behind the curtain, sitting with his knees to his chest eating a pie.

He was not there of course.

Onto the next door, which opened into a storage closet. You laughed to yourself knowing there was no way the Shape could fit in there, but opened it anyways, taking a quick glimpse inside before shutting it again and moving onto your next search. Your bedroom door stood across from you at the end of the hall and you grinned deviously, knowing he had to be in there somewhere.

Opening up the door as quietly as you could you gently called, “Michael~”, drawing out his name. Slipping inside, you furthered your enticement. “I have a really nice compromise that I think you will like~,” you said, your voice dripping with sweetness.

But Michael was no fool.

You sighed, placing your hands on your hips. Then you remembered your closet. _There’s no way Michael would go for_ that _spot, it’s way too obvious_. You opened up the door anyways, finding a dark closet, and complete silence. Huffing once more you shut the door and walked out, standing in the middle of your room once again. Then it hit you: _Michael wouldn’t hide there for it being too obvious if the goal was to stay hidden. However that was not the goal—the goal was to buy enough time to eat that pie—_

You burst through the closet door again, practically slamming your hand against the light switch to allow you more light to see the Shape, pressed up against the wall next to the door, frozen in place with a forkful of pie suspended in the air in front of his open mouth, his eyes staring down at you.

You smirked.

Before you knew it, Michael shoved the mouthful of pie into his mouth and quickly walked out of the closet. You followed after him, throwing yourself onto his back and wrapping your arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him down or at least shove him into a wall, but it instead just looked like he was giving you a piggyback ride.

Michael paid no mind to your attachment to his backside or to your hollering, his focus solely on eating the pie in his hands, rapidly shoving bite after bite down his throat. When he neared the other end of the hall leading to the guest bedroom, he slammed you against a wall, successfully knocking the breath out of you, and causing your grip on him to loosen. He quickly set the pie down on the dresser next to the entrance of the bedroom and with one hand, grabbed your arm and pulled you around him, basically tossing you to the ground like you were a discarded item of clothing.

Stepping over your wimpy body, he entered the guest room and shut the door behind him, and leaning his back against the door, he picked up the pie and resumed his dinner.

You got up with a pained grunt and started banging on the door. “MICHAEL!!” you yelled angrily. Michael ignored you. “MICHAEL OPEN UP!” You demanded, banging harder. Michael only continued to eat the delicious treat in his hands freely.

Letting out a frustrated huff, you stepped back, eyes fixed on the wood before you. Rolling up your sleeves, you warned Michael, “If you’re not coming out, I’m coming in.”

Michael could’ve laughed at that. He just shook his head and kept on eating, set on finishing his pie.

He was slightly disturbed however when he felt the door behind him open and close again from his weight leaning back on it. You must’ve thrown yourself against it or something.

Outside, you landed hard on your back after charging at the door. It hardly moved and you knew Michael was on the other side. Groaning, you stood once more and slammed against the wood again with your shoulder, hardly accomplishing anything. You kept your hopes high though as you planted your feet on the ground, your back against the door, and started pushing back with everything in you.

Michael could feel your failing attempts at getting through the door with him holding it closed. _So stupid_.

After readjusting to shove the door with your shoulder, you started sliding down the hardwood floor with your feet, pushing yourself off from the door to a standing position when you were inches from the ground. Breathing heavily, you rolled up your sleeves once more, and barreled towards the door again, hitting it with a loud thud.

Meanwhile, Michael was almost finished with his wondrous dessert. Your next few goes at slamming against the door were in vain, and he knew you’d tire yourself out soon. The fact was that when Michael wanted something, he got it. There was nothing you could do to change that, and certainly nothing you could do to keep him from his pies.

With one satisfied swallow, Michael finished his pie. And just as you were about to have another go at the door, too.

He decided to humor himself.

As soon as he heard your heavy footsteps pounding down the hall, he opened the door, watching with a smug look in his eyes as you flew through the doorway and brutally smashed against the wall on the other side of the room. Michael shook his head at your hopeless form laying on the floor in agony. _Jesus_.

He grabbed the empty pie box and tossed it onto your sprawled out body, landing on your stomach and causing you to snap your head to him. Before you could do anything else to further damage your pathetic self, Michael turned to leave.

“Michael Myers you are so frickin’ DEAD,” you threatened. Taking the pie box from your lap, you stood and sped-walked after him, ignoring the throbbing pain in your head and shoulder. When you caught up to him in the hallway to the kitchen, you chucked the cardboard at his head. When it hit the back of his masked skull with a hollow _bop_ , you let out a triumphant laugh.

Michael stopped dead in his tracks. _Did you just..._ He slowly turned around to face you. When his eyes met yours, shivers were sent down your spine from the glare he held in his gaze.

_... hit him?—With the remains of his precious dessert?_

“Oh shit,” you cursed in a deep voice. You turned and ran back up the stairs, pretending like you weren’t hearing the loud footsteps that followed after you. _You’re fiiiine, you’re_ totally, _fiiiine. You’re definitely_ not _about to get wrecked by Michael Myers for throwing a pie box at his head_.

Entering your bedroom, you slammed the door shut behind you and practically dived to the floor so you could crawl underneath your bed. Once you were positioned well enough to not be found for at least the next two minutes, you held your breath in anticipation for the door to slowly open, and for a looming figure to come into view.

Sure enough, the door opened with a painfully long creak and in stepped the Shape. He immediately turned and entered your closet, and you could tell he was searching every inch of it for you, and when he didn’t find you, he turned and left. You were relieved to see his large feet walk away from where you were, and you closed your eyes, releasing the breath you were holding.

Big mistake.

By closing your eyes, you missed seeing the lower half of his body re-enter the room and move to the other side of your bed, behind the way you were facing. The next thing you felt was two gigantic and strong hands aggressively grip your ankles and violently yank you from your sacred hiding place. You screamed at the sudden feeling of being dragged with no warning whatsoever, and yelled even more as you felt Michael’s hands leave your legs so he could wrap an arm around your waist. He picked you up as you kicked him and hit his arm and flung you onto your bed. Before you could get away, he grabbed your throat with one of his hands and pulled you towards him so you were sitting upright looking up at his menacing form hovering over you.

“Well then,” you said quietly.

His grip around your throat tightened. He wanted you to apologize for getting in the way of his peaceful evening between him and his blessed pie, and for using his own dessert against him.

“Michael, pie is not a reasonable dinner, I got that for us to _share_ for after—,” he squeezed your throat harder, waiting for you to say the words.

“Okay, okay,” you rasped. “I’m sorry. You want pies, they’re yours,” you finished, wheezing.

Satisfied, he let go of your throat. _There, was that so hard?_ He began to leave the room to go outside for a walk so he could get away from your nagging.

You sat on the bed, massaging your no doubt bruising neck and murmuring your irritation to yourself. “And all that for a pie,” you muttered, although a little too loudly.

Michael abruptly stopped and spun around, giving you a look clearly asking, _the hell did you just say to me?_

You looked up at his sudden movements and immediately held up your hands in defense. “What! I’m sorry _your_ _Royal Highness_ , I’ll get you more pies, God...”

Michael perked up. _That’s what I thought_. And with that, he turned to leave, knowing he’d kick your ass for your back talk when he returned.

So Michael had won. Again.

You on the other hand regretted ever buying pie in the first place.


	14. The Stars In His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds Michael outside studying the stars in the night sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf 
> 
> \- I love looking up at the stars. I’d love even more to gaze at them with Michael. I’m sure we all would

The night was cool and the rain from the day still collected on the grass, the now clear sky exposing a bright moon that illuminated the remaining precipitation below.

You stood at your kitchen window looking out at the darkness of spring, mesmerized by the way the moonlight shone down on each blade of grass.

Tearing your eyes away from the lawn, you noticed the silhouette of a man sitting on the small brick wall that surrounded the fire pit of your back patio. You smiled a little as you recognized the telltale head tilt that he sat with.

Quietly slipping on your shoes and opening up the back door to your patio, you cautiously walked up behind the man, careful not to startle him. As you neared him, you noticed that he was looking up at the sky. You stopped not too far behind him, just enough so you could see the brightness of the moon casting light upon his white mask.

You crossed your arms to hold in what little warmth you still had against your middle, and looked up at the sky as well. There were dozens of stars, big and small, dim and bright. It felt like you hadn’t seen such a clear night sky in ages; this spring had been so rain-heavy almost nightly.

With a gentle hand, you reached out and placed it softly on Michael’s back, and when he didn’t move an inch, you moved up to stand beside him. Looking back up at the sky, you started listing all the constellations you could see in your mind (though you hardly knew any). You saw the 3 unmistakable stars in a line that created Orion’s Belt, and another 4 easily recognizable stars that brought the Big Dipper to life.

Content with pinpointing just the two constellations you were most familiar with, you glanced back over at Michael. You could see one of his eyes—the left one, now a slight milky white from an attack not too long ago. Your hand never left his back, and you began subconsciously rubbing small circles here and there, occasionally tracing his spine and shoulder blades.

He let you; he seemed to be transfixed on the stars above him. It was almost like he’d never even seen such a sight.

Then you realized he most likely had not. He’d been locked up in that sanitarium all those years, and when he escaped, stargazing was probably the last thing on his mind. But now that things had slightly quieted down, and he lived with you, things were almost a bit more peaceful—and now he could if he wanted.

You gave a small smile again, wrapping your arm across his shoulders and pulling yourself into his side to feel his warmth. He continued to look at the sky, paying you no mind.

“You see those 3 stars there? All in a row?” you asked, pointing up at them. You glanced over at Michael to see his head turn a little to follow what you were pointing at. You waited, and after a minute, he gave you a small nod. “That’s Orion’s Belt. It’s a constellation,” you informed him.

His head tilted to the side with curiosity.

“I guess if you follow that you can see 2 stars above them, and 2 stars below them, which are supposed to be like his shoulders and the end of his skirt or whatever.”

Michael looked over at you, brow somewhat furrowed with slight confusion.

You returned his gaze. “What? I don’t know what it’s called—it’s like his hunter’s outfit or something. See, you can kind of see the bow he’s holding out from him like he’s about to shoot,” you pointed out again, nodding your head towards the figure in the stars.

Michael slowly turned back to what you were trying to show him and shook his head slightly. He saw the 3 stars and that was it—he had no idea what you were talking about.

“Well, whatever. Look over there, it’s the Big Dipper. It’s got 4 little stars in a rectangle shape for the bowl part and 3 more sticking out from it as the handle,” you explained as you pointed to your left at the well known constellation.

Michael examined the area you were pointing to and successfully found what you were talking about. He gave a little nod to show you that he understood what you were describing.

You let out a little laugh in response, looking back into his eyes that looked past you and to the sky. In them you could see the stars, and at the same time seemed to twinkle with wonder. You warily brought your hand from his back to the side of his face, gingerly cupping his masked cheek and brushing your thumb across the latex just under his eye hole.

Michael slowly turned his head back to the stars in front of him, still not acting like he cared what you did, too focused on the night sky. It really was beautiful you thought, as you moved your hand back to his shoulder blades, gently tracing his backside in random patterns with your fingertips.

It felt like an hour had gone by before a shiver got you a little too harshly, and you decided it was time for you to head inside. You looked over at Michael one last time, finding him completely lost in the stars, studying them closely, and you smiled once more before leaning over and giving him a small kiss on the latex of his cheek.

And with that, you left to go back inside, leaving behind Michael and his childlike curiosity, wholly consumed by the magnificent array of glimmering stars that painted the spring night sky.


	15. Arachnophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader struggles with arachnophobia and comes face to face with a spider in the shower. Michael takes care of things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- This is kind of based on a true story, unfortunately minus Michael of course... Spiders suck okay?

You had not looked forward to anything more in your life than this: a nice, warm shower. Slipping off your clothes, the cool air that hit your bare skin sent a shiver down your spine, only furthering your want to feel hot water trickling down your body.

You were too tired to try to find Michael who you knew would be lurking around somewhere in your house. Too tired to go through the normal routine you had for showering, which consisted of using the bathroom, checking the shower thoroughly for any unwanted guests, getting undressed, and hopping into the cleansing water. Too tired to notice the tiny visitor waiting for you to enter your bathing area.

The one time something so simple as looking around prior to coming into such a vulnerable situation slipped your mind, you were to experience one of the worst incidents by far.

Closing your eyes, you took in the wonderful feeling of heated water reaching your scalp and soothing your chilled and achy body, your mind instantly put at ease. All your stresses were forgotten as you massaged a minty shampoo into your hair, enjoying the refreshing feeling seeping into your skull. Letting out a long sigh, you finally opened your eyes, suddenly coming into focus on a small, black dot about a foot from your face.

You froze.

You felt your breath hitch. You could’ve sworn your heart stopped beating as well as alarms went off in your head rapidly at the sight before you. Slowly, _agonizingly_ , a head, an abdomen, and eight, _horrible_ legs came into view. Its thickness only set off more danger signals as you stood, paralyzed with fear, completely unwilling to move.

It seemed like seconds were passing by as minutes, minutes as hours as you watched it keep lowering itself on an invisible strand, making the awful thing level with your collarbone. The water that continued to hit your backside began to tease you too, the droplets running down your motionless form beginning to feel like little legs, scuttling down your spine, to your rear, to your legs.

It was when the image of more creatures surrounding you began flooding your mind that you finally worked up the courage to do something about the sickening situation you were in. Gulping roughly through your dry throat, you yelled—not yelled, _screamed_ with everything in you, “ _MICHAEL!_ ”

Downstairs, Michael heard your terrified scream for him and in that moment he’d never heard something so awful. His immediate reaction was to grab a knife from the kitchen, and he briskly walked up the stairs to the bathroom. He wasted no time in bursting through the door, expecting to find someone, some horribly ignorant man that dared enter his home. Fresh prey for a hungry predator. But there was no one.

At the sound of a door aggressively opening and a large and menacing presence blocking half the light flooding through your shower curtains, you took action. You turned just as Michael ripped open the shower curtain to find your horror-stricken form, ready to run. You did just that, lunging out of the shower and past the Shape that had glared at you expectantly, snatching your towel folded neatly on the counter waiting for your unexpected return. As you ran out of the dreadful room, you wrapped the cloth around your waist, heading straight for your room and leaving behind a very confused and irritated Michael.

He looked around for the source of your distress, and as he reached to turn off the shower, he noticed a small black spider crawling on the floor of the tub. _Oh. Right._ Michael was vaguely aware of your little fear of those things. He had no idea why they freaked you out so much—after all, they could easily be overpowered by literally anything you could get your hands on if you weren’t going to kill it through use of your foot.

Michael huffed. But he lifted his leg over the shower tub and stepped on it anyways, successfully killing your offender.

Meanwhile, you had managed to send yourself into a full blown panic attack. You were hyperventilating, your throat closed and your body shaking uncontrollably. The tears that ran down your face blurred your already spotty vision, and in your mind raced a million thoughts. Thoughts of _them._

 _They’re on you._ You pulled at your hair and practically scratched your exposed skin, trying in vain to rid yourself of what you thought was on you.

 _They’re all around your feet._ Your body tensed completely and you could hardly bring yourself to step anywhere, yet where you stood made you just as uncomfortable. Completely trapped.

 _Everywhere._ You couldn’t get away.

Michael walked into your room, finding you as a complete shuddering mess. He watched you closely, taking note of how panicked you were from the mere sight of something so incredibly small compared to you. He slowly walked up to you, his eyes never leaving your trembling form.

Your hands had continued to frantically roam over your body, still swiping away at critters unseen by Michael. Your cries and desperate gasps of air only grew in intensity and you felt like you were going to die. When suddenly, two large hands gripped your shoulders, momentarily pulling you from the spiral you were falling into. When you found yourself back into the worsening state you had been in, the hands shook you slightly, turning you towards the figure looming above you as they did so.

Michael had never seen anything with you get this bad. Normally his victims would be this panicked because of him, and he’d just kill them. Seeing as your frightfulness was caused by a little spider and that he decided long ago that he wasn’t going to kill you, he wasn’t quite sure how to stop whatever was going down with you.

Your intense anxiety made it very hard to register the warm hands on your bare skin. You could hardly breathe and were on the verge of passing out. In an attempt to ground yourself, you reached out trying to find the owner of the large hands holding you, finding a solid body and immediately grabbing fistfuls of the clothes they wore.

Michael let you cling to him, lowering his hands back to his sides as you slowly became more attached to him. Your panic had hardly gotten better and he could tell that you were struggling to breathe. The way your neck strained and the muscles in your arms flexed told him you were horribly tense, and the way your eyes darted from side to side seemed to him like you were seeing things he could not.

Then Michael had an idea—he was curious.

He grabbed your wrists to pry you from his coveralls, ignoring your panicked sounds when you lost what you were using to ground yourself.

You were a complete catastrophe, and you felt so hopeless and terrified you didn’t know what to do. You were just about to descend even further into your anxiety when you suddenly felt your palm touch a solid and very warm body in front of you. You could feel a rough hand firmly holding the wrist of your hand that rested on the chest of the figure before you.

You let out a whimper, confused and scared. But then you felt a steady beating beneath your palm.

Your rapid breathing faltered and slightly slowed.

The beat was strong in your hand, and compared to your own pounding in your chest—extremely relaxed. So you brought your focus to it.

The hand on your wrist carefully released its iron grip and moved to the back of your hand still resting on the body in front of you. You could vaguely feel yourself slipping to match the thumping underneath your hand, allowing you to take shaky deep breaths, occasionally gasping from the sudden transition in breathing rate.

The anxiety that plagued you had stopped putting horrible images into your mind and soon your entire focus was the heart beating in your hand. Not long after that, you could hear the actual reality around you rather than the constant fuzziness and ringing that shut you from outside of your thoughts—you heard soft and steady breathing. So you moved to match the relaxed breathing too.

Michael watched and took note of how quickly you seemed to change from panicked to easing into a composed state again, just by using his own calm heartbeat and breaths. He wasn’t even doing anything extraordinary to help you, he simply held your hand to his chest and breathed normally. But it was apparently working.

He tilted his head with interest.

After about five minutes, your hyperventilating diminished to more natural, quivering breaths, and your muscles ceased to ache from how tense you had been.

You finally looked up at the man looking down at you.

“Hi Michael,” you rasped in a small voice.

He tilted his head to the other side.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as you hung your head, feeling stupid that all this was caused by a tiny spider.

Michael straightened his head, staring down at you with a look that seemed to say, _don’t let it happen again._

You gulped. Arachnophobia wasn’t something that could easily be treated overnight, it would take months of practice and with a therapist. But you would do it if it meant you wouldn’t get on Michael’s nerves in the silliest of ways again.

You gave him a meek nod.

Unexpectedly, he pulled your trembling body to him with one arm, keeping you close to him with it and not touching you anywhere else. But you gladly accepted the rare Michael hug and wrapped your arms around his waist, laying the side of your head against his chest and listening to the steady heartbeat that saved you from your panic.


	16. Horror Movie Fanatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader watches The Conjuring, regretting that decision when Michael decides to toy with your fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- I just watched The Conjuring for the 80th time today and got the idea for this story, so there are many references throughout. If you haven’t seen it, would highly recommend—it’s pretty great.

You jumped at the loud sound of pictures crashing to the floor behind Carolyn Perron. You immediately laughed out loud at how on edge you were by watching this movie. You picked _The Conjuring_ just for fun, clearly not having thought through your level of comfort that would be impacted from watching it by yourself.

As you gathered yourself again, preparing for more to come, you felt a presence beside you. Quickly whipping your head to the side to see what ghost had decided to join you for your horror movie night, you were immediately relieved to find an emotionless, white mask staring down at you.

Letting out a breathy laugh, you said, “Oh am I glad to see _you!_ ”

Michael tilted his head in response then turned his attention to the chaos ensuing on the tv.

“I decided to watch _The Conjuring_ but have found that I am indeed regretting that decision,” you said with humor eminent in your voice. You then patted the cushion next to you on the couch. “Please, sit,” you offered, pleading silently with your eyes for him to not leave you alone with the demon in the Perron house.

Sighing, Michael reluctantly plopped down beside you, and you wasted no time in curling up against his side for unnecessary protection.

~=!!!=~

“That was intense,” you stated, staring at the credits rolling past your eyes.

Michael, however, was unfazed. You hadn’t expected him to be afraid of a simple movie anyways. Plus, you doubted he believed in any of that stuff. You on the other hand, were very much scared.

“Dude if somebody was hiding in my closet like that, I’d shoot myself,” you remarked, “and I especially wouldn’t appreciate it if there was that agonizingly long door creak... _ugh._ And that whole ‘Hide-and-Clap’ scene? _Terrifying._ ” You shuddered.

Michael listened to your fears, though he hardly understood why doors and a little game creeped you out so much.

You busied yourself with turning off the tv and straightening up the living room around you as you continued your overall opinions on the film, calculating out loud where it resided on your top ten best horror movies list. Meanwhile, Michael zoned out, occupied with thoughts circling your unease towards certain things, and paying all too much attention to the fact that he hadn’t messed with you in awhile...

~•{O}•~

“Good night Michael,” you called after the large man that made his way out of your room. When you heard the distant sound of your back door slamming shut—the usual response to your “good night”s—you turned and jumped into your bed, completely content to end the day—in particular, your racing thoughts after having watched such a scary movie. You drifted off to sleep in no time.

But you were awoken at 3:07 am by a small bang.

When you first looked at the time, your eyes shot open; that was the time the witch lady had died at the Perron house in _The Conjuring_ —the time the clocks kept stopping at. You then softly laughed it off, realizing your senses were probably still heightened and imagination still active after watching those two hours of pure horror. As for the bang, you chalked it up to just being Michael returning from wherever he was.

And with that, you laid your head back down on your pillow and closed your eyes.

But then you heard it; a long, steady creak.

You opened your eyes to find your walk-in closet door slowly opening to reveal a pitch black room. You stopped breathing then and there. This was it, you were going to die.

You faintly remembered the wardrobe slowly opening in the film, just knowing something was hiding behind it. But then you remembered you thought you’d just heard Michael return home so he probably opened it up to grab a clean pair of coveralls... but the door didn’t seem to have a source opening it from the outside? If he was in there you would’ve heard him enter in the first place if his plan was to mess with you.

Your thoughts entered and left your brain rapidly as you tried to rationalize why your closet door had done such a creepy thing apparently of its own volition, seeing as nothing you came up with made much sense.

You were too scared to call out to Michael to see if it really was him, too scared to get out of bed to see if he was actually in there.

Like hell were you checking that shit out.

After long, grueling minutes of waiting for something to jump out at you—for two arms to extend from the darkness of the small room and clap in a game of Hide-and-Clap just like in the movie—you finally started to drift off again from how tired you were, both mentally and physically.

The lids of your eyes grew heavy, and you found yourself slipping in and out of consciousness. Until, you eventually closed your eyes and didn’t reopen them.

It wasn’t for long though, because you suddenly heard a large object get knocked over, causing you to rip open your eyes and jolt upright from your sleeping position. You looked to where the sound of a falling object was and found that the floor lamp you had sitting beside your closet door had been knocked over, and after slowly turning your head, you noticed your bedroom door which you always left closed had been opened, the closet door shut once more.

Without looking, you reached out to your side to turn on the lamp on your nightstand, and after multiple clicks and no light flooding your room in response, you sadly accepted the fact that the light was out.

“ _Fuck,_ ” you mouthed, unable to bring yourself to use your voice in the slightest.

You sat stock still for minutes just staring out at the blackness of the hallway your doorway entered into. If this truly was Michael messing with you, he really was determined to scare the crap out of you. Along with that, you had always assumed when he messed with his victims, he allowed them a glimpse here and there of himself to let them know who they were up against. You figured if this was Michael, he’d have done that by now, assuming the worst: he was going to kill you.

But you hadn’t seen an expressionless masked face looming in the darkness surrounding you.

You gulped, wondering who could _possibly_ be doing this to you.

Out of nowhere, a small ball rolled into your room from the black hallway. Where it came from, you didn’t know, and quite frankly you didn’t care. Whoever was out there—whoever was putting you through this hell—sure was one heck of an asshole, that was for sure.

You watched with horribly elevating anxiety as the ball slowly made its way all the way to your bed, where it bounced off the post and eventually came to a stop. You questioned with humor, _wasn’t there a ball that was tossed out of nowhere in the cellar in_ The Conjuring _?_ , though after the thought was out there, you realized there was nothing humorous about it.

Looking back up at the pitch darkness just through your door, you saw nothing and no one, only furthering your fear.

In that moment, you had such a strong urge to just _go check it out._ You always thought you’d be the smart one in a horror movie, the one to not run upstairs away from danger when the front door was right in front of you, the one who wouldn’t stop their escape to turn and look around for their enemy, and most relevantly, the one who wouldn’t go looking for the source of a creepy event.

But here you were, reaching for your phone on your nightstand and turning on its flashlight.

You took your time climbing out of bed, pushing down the panic that suddenly hit you at the image of being grabbed from underneath your bed. Your heart was pounding in your rib cage and you could hardly breathe. All of your attention was focused on the hallway in front of you, and you prayed incessantly for Michael to be standing at the other end of the hallway, and not some creepy figure. The image of the little girl in _Lights Out_ flashed in your mind’s eye and you quickly shook your head as if to rid yourself of such a situation.

As you walked further down the hallway, you reached a light switch, and after a few failed attempts with again, no light illuminating the ominous hallway, you huffed and ashamedly felt tears prick at your eyes.

At this point, as you neared the open bathroom entering into more darkness, you were just expecting to hear a small voice behind you asking if you wanted to play Hide-and-Clap. But none came, and you were just about to give up and speed walk back to your room, lock the door, and bury yourself in your covers when you felt two large hands grab you and pull you into the pitch black bathroom.

You screamed in horror, finding your voice being muffled by one hand, and as you tried to struggle out of the terrifyingly rough grip, you knew you couldn’t from the other arm wrapped around your arms.

The bathroom door was slammed shut by you guessed was your attacker’s free leg kicking it closed, leaving you in complete darkness with a ghost. Yes, a ghost, you were sure you were being attacked by a demon.

You were spun around and slammed against a wall on your backside, immediately pinned against it, a hand still covering your mouth. Your offender’s other hand was fumbling with your own for your phone you still held tightly, flashlight still on. You were unable to fight back as you felt a body press against you, rendering you incapable of kicking, only causing you to scream even harder.

You felt your phone leave your hand and you immediately moved to claw at the hand over your mouth. The light of your flashlight moved rapidly around the bathroom, seeming as if your attacker was trying to get a good hold on it.

And when they did, you lost your shit.

The light was held up to your offender’s face, revealing to you a blank, stark white mask, and behind it two beautifully menacing dark eyes, one slightly discolored from an earlier fight.

Your screams were caught in your throat as you stared at Michael in shock. His hand slowly eased off of your mouth, and his body slightly released its pressure against you.

This left you able to finally use your voice for good.

“Michael fucking Myers,” you said, your tone dangerous.

Michael let go of you, his eyes displaying an absolutely smug look, leaving you even more angry as he shoved your phone back into your hand and opened the bathroom door to exit.

“ _Michael!!_ ” you yelled after him. “ _I cannot believe you!!_ ”

Michael ignored you as he walked into your room, no doubt completely content with himself and the world for what he had just pulled off.

“You suck man, you really do,” you stated loudly as you followed him into your room and into your closet where he grabbed a fresh pair of coveralls and casually started to change like you weren’t a seething, trembling mess right next to him.

“You totally took advantage of all that I spilled to you about what scared me the most in that stupid movie!!” you cried in betrayal. Michael finished changing and turned to you. The look in his eyes read, _yup._

You groaned in irritation as he walked past you like you were nothing and laid down in your bed.

You sighed loudly as you stomped to the other side to reluctantly join him, acknowledging the fact that you were still tired and in dire need of sleep and an end to this day.

After you both laid in silence for a couple minutes, you let out another abrupt sigh and turned to him, saying, “I still can’t believe you did that. I mean seriously, what did I ever do to deserve that! You _know_ I can be a very jumpy person. That was just cruel.”

Michael turned to face you, his eyes telling you that he could care less, and that you should’ve expected that after giving him that sort of information; basically saying you did this to yourself.

You slapped his chest, and if Michael was one to laugh, he for sure would have. Instead, he turned his head back to the ceiling, and you turned on your side so your back was to him, shutting your eyes tightly just willing yourself to forget the man behind you. But after a couple more minutes, you found you could not when you felt two strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you against a strong body.

You let out another deep sigh and mumbled, “I will get you back for that.” And somehow you knew what he thought in response to your statement: _I seriously doubt it._


	17. To Hate Loving You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has killed one of reader’s friends and you are not happy about it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- Michael what the heck

“ _I can’t believe you!_ ”

You stormed into your house, unable to turn and face the man that followed you.

Michael slammed the door shut behind him as he stalked after you into your house. You were seething, he could tell, but the reason why—he could care less. He did what he did, and you were to deal with it.

When you got to the middle of your living room, you finally whipped around. When your eyes met his cold, uncaring ones, your anger only deepened. “Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve done?” you asked in disbelief.

Michael inwardly snorted. _Uh, ~yeah~._ He just didn’t care.

As if reading his thoughts, you scolded, “Oh don’t give me that fucking look Michael Myers she didn’t do anything wrong and you know it.”

Growing bored of listening to your attempted rebukes, Michael strode past you into the kitchen, opening the fridge to find himself something to eat.

“ _Are you serious?!_ ” you asked incredulously as you watched him. Settling on a bottle of coke, Michael pulled up the bottom of his mask so he could take a swig as he walked towards you again. After swallowing the sweet and bubbly pop, he looked down at you, his eyes answering your unbelieving question. _Yes._

Your jaw dropped as he walked past you, brushing your shoulder a little forcefully—enough to nudge you backwards slightly, but enough to send you over the edge.

“ _MICHAEL FUCKING MYERS I AM NOT DONE WITH YOU YET!!_ ” you yelled, turning to him to see that he stopped dead in his tracks, back facing you. You hardly yelled in your house, especially not at him; there was a silent understanding between the two of you that this was Michael’s house just as much as yours after you accepted his presence (though he would’ve stayed either way), and because he lived with you, that meant you lived with him— _as his_. Any crossing of any line would mean your doom, and acting like you had any power over him whatsoever—like yelling at him—was a sure-fire way to meet that.

But you stood your ground as he slowly turned to look at you.

“Michael that woman was innocent—my coworker— _my friend,_ ” you choked back a sob, tears welling in your eyes as you watched Michael casually take another gulp of coke, glaring down at you all the while.

You could’ve screamed with how frustrated and angry you were, but you knew no matter what you said, Michael wouldn’t suddenly care. But you continued, your voice still raised, “You know, I can have other friends, Michael. _You’re not the only person I’m allowed to care about—_ “

Faster than you could register, Michael slammed down his coke bottle and grabbed you, pushing you back against the nearest wall by your throat. You didn’t have any time to get even more upset by the pop seeping into your carpet when Michael quickly boxed you in by his large, muscular form. Pinned against the wall by his giant hand that squeezed your neck and his torso against your upper body, you felt small and helpless. He bent down to look at you, your eyes leaking huge tears and little choking sounds occasionally escaping your throat.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—you kept your eyes trained on his chest. The close proximity in which he stood to you made it very difficult to avoid his glare, but you were too disgusted to see those unfeeling, dark eyes. You knew what they’d read: _you are mine._

And in that moment you didn’t want to be his.

You finally brought your eyes up to meet his with as much harsh resentment as you could muster.

“ _I hate you,_ ” you hissed.

Time seemed to freeze, and you could feel your heart desperately pounding in your chest. The hand around your neck slightly tightened, and Michael tilted his head. His gaze never left your hurt expression, and his fearsome eyes only seemed to harden. With his mask he’d pulled up so he could drink his coke you saw his jaw was clenched.

You knew you messed up, but you didn’t care. And Michael knew that you didn’t seem to understand the situation you put yourself in.

He moved closer to your face, his latex nose centimeters from the bridge of your own, causing you to close your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see him. However you could feel the light puffs of air from his steady breaths hit your skin from the nostrils of his mask. The heat of his body just barely pressed against yours radiated off of him intensely, engulfing you. You felt his masked nose faintly move up your face, and his exposed slightly parted lips softly grazed your forehead.

Suddenly, you felt two large fingers firmly grip your jaw, tilting your head upwards. You knew he was prompting you to open your eyes and look at him. He wanted you to see him. See the man who you let claim you.

So you did. And when you reopened your eyes you could see black spots from lack of oxygen. Along with that, you could smell the latex of his mask, the sweat that lightly coated the base of his neck, and... fresh pine.

You let out a strangled sob; you felt taunted—like you were being played with, and at the same time like his actions—the way looked at you, touched you, held you so strongly—was him asserting his dominance over you.

Reminding you who you belonged to.

Letting out another cry, you began pushing and kicking against Michael with everything in you, but he barely moved.

So you continued.

Kicking and screaming as hard as you could.

Michael grew tired of your pathetic attempts at fighting him, knowing you’d never win, and with an irritated grunt, let go of you. You fell to your knees in front of him, your tears falling harder as you took in breaths rapidly, trying to regain the air you had lost.

When you could finally breathe without going into a coughing fit, you looked up at the giant man staring down at you with newfound bitterness. You slowly rose to stand, at first struggling to find your balance. Returning his glare was easy; you were so worked up you could meet his confined energy effortlessly.

For as long as you had known him, you had been _his_. It took months for him to allow you to leave the house apart from your job to go to the store without him hounding on you, even longer to go elsewhere. He wanted to keep an eye on you and make sure you weren’t doing anything to break the trust he had reluctantly given you, and more importantly, to ensure nobody else took you away from him. You only partly understood that part when it came to other guys—you were sure to avoid anyone looking at you enticingly, even more so if someone tried approaching and flirting with you. You were loyal to Michael, and would never go against him like that. That was why you thought _friendships_ would be perfectly fine—in no way were you hurting him.

But you were wrong. And _God,_ you didn’t know _why_.

And you _hated_ him for that.

Clenching your hands into fists, you growled through gritted teeth, “ _I hate you,_ ” again, voicing your thoughts.

Michael only looked at you.

This just made all that you were feeling worse.

“ _I HATE YOU!!_ ” you screamed, running at him and beating your fists against his chest. “I hate you I hate you _I hate you!!_ ” you cried in between sobs and gasps for breath.

Your blows hardly moved him, and he let you helplessly pound your balled up hands against his torso with indifference.

You were so angry, and you felt so hopelessly lost. There was not one thing you could do to change his heart, meaning he’d never give in to you. You stood no chance against him, and you could kick and scream all you wanted—it would do nothing. You were nothing but an object to him. A toy. Though he became a bit protective when it came to others interacting with you, that didn’t mean that he actually cared for you and your well-being.

You were simply his and only his.

Finally, when your fighting started to slow down, your hits growing weak, and there was more crying than yelling, Michael brought up his hands to your arms, roughly pulling you away from him. He looked down at you with an irritated look that asked, _are you done?_

You only cried.

Michael let go of you and walked away, and when you looked up, he was gone.

~

That night, after recovering from your intense episode, you slowly climbed the stairs to your room. You peeled off your now wet and sticky clothes and tossed them aside, carelessly throwing an oversized shirt over your head and not bothering to get any bottoms. Crawling into your bed, your muscles ached from how tense you had been. Your throat was raw and sore from your screaming and the hold on your neck, and you could hardly open your swelled eyes from crying. You collapsed onto the mattress once you reached your side of the bed, and couldn’t help but think about Michael.

What he did was horrible and completely uncalled for. All you did was go over to her house for a nice evening with her, but he had followed you, and apparently didn’t like that you were hanging out with someone else—even though they were just a friend. Asking for permission beforehand obviously didn’t do any good either, even though he hadn’t given you a definite “no” in the first place.

He had killed her right in front of you.

You were just exhausted, too much so to be upset anymore. You knew your feelings for Michael were too complicated; it was so hard to love him sometimes, but in the end you had always seemed to, no matter what. But this was the first time you wondered if you could move past this and keep loving him. He had no right to strip you of your life within society—no right to take away your job, your friends, your family. And you were afraid he would anyways.

Suddenly, you felt the bed dip beside you, and an unmistakable warmth envelop you. Michael had gotten into bed behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his body and nuzzling what you could feel was his unmasked face into your hair.

You instantly melted.

And instantly hated him for it.

How could he do something to anger you so awfully but simply touch you and cause you to forgive him in the blink of an eye? How could he ruin so many aspects of your life, whether it be the social, emotional, or even physical parts and just look at you and lead you to forget? How could he make you feel so weak, so alone but still want him, ache for him and the feel of him even if he caused you such pain to begin with?

And you realized: it _was_ because you loved him no matter what.

You didn’t know why he crawled into bed with you and held you. Didn’t know why he had taken off his mask. As you turned on your other side facing him, you didn’t know why he let you wrap your arms around him and bury your head in his chest. Didn’t know why his arms held you just as close. Why he laid his head against the top of yours and sighed.

And you were sorry. Sorry for hating someone you realized you still hardly understood.

“I‘m sorry Michael,” you whispered shakily. And he knew you were.

Though you did belong to him and he didn’t care how his actions made you feel, you were still the person he’d come home to everyday after long nights of hunting. Still the person who’d get food ready for his return, and clean his wounds when his prey fought back. And you were the only person in the whole world to make him feel like a human being.

In the end—when he thought about who you really were to him—if you were not okay, you became less of an asset and more of a burden to him.

So he would make sure you were.


	18. I Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader struggles with mental health and asks Michael to take care of it in a way that he can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Warning: Intense depictions of suicidal thoughts and actions. Failed suicide/assisted suicide attempt. Nobody dies.

The familiar sound of your back door opening and shutting prompted you to lift your head up from your folded arms. You sat in silence while you listened to heavy footsteps downstairs, moving about your kitchen, and you watched through swollen eyes for your bedroom door to open. Part of you didn’t want Michael to walk in and see you curled up—knees to your chest, eyes puffy and red from crying, scars and fresh cuts littering your stomach.

But part of you did.

You planned to face him at some point anyway.

And with that, you slowly lifted yourself up off the ground, ignoring the pain that shot through your legs from being curled into yourself for so long. With heavy feet, you trudged to your bedroom door, pulling down your oversized shirt over your self-inflicted cuts and scratches along the way. The soft sounds of the creaky stairs seemed distant as you made your way downstairs towards the source of the noises. Reaching the bottom floor you turned to face the doorway into your kitchen, seeing just the man you needed standing at the sink, no doubt washing the knife that you had been anxiously waiting to see in his hand.

You took your time to reach him—you were in no hurry; Michael seemed very focused on the bloodied blade he was cleaning, and everything seemed slow to you anyways.

You stopped about two feet from him and waited. Maybe he’d notice your presence, maybe he wouldn’t. The latter seemed likely. As it was likely for everyone else.

But little did you know Michael always knew when you were near. He finished scrubbing his knife, and carefully—almost lovingly, dried it with a clean rag. When he was satisfied, he laid it down on the counter, then turned to face you.

He immediately froze.

You looked at him sadly—or, just past him—right through him, it seemed. Your eyes were pink, dark bags just underneath them. Your face seemed tired, resting in a way that looked as if you were in slight pain. The way you stood with your shoulders slumped and arms hugging your torso—appeared as if it were almost difficult to do, like the action of using your legs itself was too much, and like you’d much rather be slumped against something, or laying on the floor.

Michael tilted his head at you.

Your eyes suddenly looked directly into the dark holes of his mask. You opened your mouth to speak but found that you couldn’t from the sudden dryness you felt. Clearing your throat, you tried again.

“I’m done,” you said simply, matter-of-factly. You sounded neither angry nor sad, just as if you were letting him know what you were making for dinner.

Michael continued to stare at you, confusion starting to settle in his now quiet mind.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you told him, again devoid of emotion, and stated with simplicity.

Michael straightened his head. He immediately thought you were talking about being done with this whole killing thing—with _him._ He then supposed this day would come, when you’d realize you couldn’t handle Michael Myers, a killer. Pure evil incarnate.

But you surprised him with your next words:

“I’m ready for you to kill me,” you said, softer this time, and with the faintest crack of your voice.

Michael tilted his head again. _Kill you?_

He didn’t understand.

You read that by how his head was cocked to the side. You didn’t think he would get it. You were alone in this after all, weren’t you? Nobody could understand even if you explained it to them ten times. It’s not like they’d even care to listen in the first place.

But you guessed you owed him some sort of explanation.

“Not to get too into it or anything—I know you have things to do—a life to get back to living, so I’ll just make it easy: I don’t want to live anymore. There’s no reason for me to. It’s not like I matter at all, and I pose no significant role in anyone’s life—I mean how could I?” you chuckled. “So, rather than humoring myself by sticking around, waiting to feel like I’m wanted, or that I even exist to people outside of this house, and when I’m not in front of their face—though I doubt they’d even notice then... I’d prefer if you just got on with what you’ve most likely been waiting to do the moment you met me and kill me,” you finished.

A heavy silence settled around you, and Michael’s head remained slightly cocked to the side, but you could feel his eyes boring holes into you.

And you ignored the intense sensation, just patiently waiting for his knife to pierce your sternum.

As Michael looked at you, he’d never been more lost. How could you possibly be feeling this way? Were you just trying to be funny? Sure, he’d often come home to find you lounging in the living room with the tv off, staring blankly at nothing, but he’d just relate to that and then carry on with his business—sometimes he joined you. Other times he’d come into your room and find you softly crying to yourself, or staring at your phone seemingly waiting for something, eventually putting it down and looking completely defeated. He figured you’d just had a rough day, or were reading something sad on the internet or whatever—he didn’t really want to know what went on when you were on that device. But never, _ever_ had he reached the conclusion that you wanted to _die,_ let alone for him to be the one to _kill you._ The fact that you were asking that of him now was beyond him.

After _everything._

He thought the two of you established you each had your own problems, but that there was acceptance, and there was trust. You understood him and had never run from him. He’d never seen any fear in your eyes when you looked at him, and that was something that unexpectedly had an effect on him, though he wasn’t sure exactly what that effect _was._ Quite frankly, he didn’t need to put a name to it to know that it felt _good._ And Michael hadn’t felt _good_ in a long, long time.

So he silently asked the question again: _why, after all this time, were you looking at him with a wordless plea in your eyes that begged him to kill you?_

_Did he even want to kill you?_

Your voice broke the silence once more. “Can you please just get it over with?” you asked, and he noted that along with the exhaustion in your voice, there was annoyance.

_Annoyance._

And now it was Michael’s turn to be _annoyed._ No he wasn’t annoyed, he was _angry._ He straightened his head and glared at you sharply. How could you possibly ask this of him? He had no idea how those words could even leave your mouth; not only had he fought against everything in him to let you live when he looked into your brave eyes the first time—you two learned _together_ how to be close with someone for _real,_ learned how to care for each other in your own ways, and most importantly, he learned—no you _taught him_ how to feel like a human being.

And now you wanted to throw it all away? Better yet, asked _him_ to throw it all away?

You couldn’t be serious.

As if reading his thoughts, you said, “Okay Michael, you’re really drawing this out and it’s only making it harder.”

Michael took an aggressive step towards you, bringing himself so close to you that you could feel the quick puffs of breath that escaped from his mask hit your forehead as you met his heated gaze. You closed your eyes and braced yourself, ready for the familiar sting of a knife. But once more, there was nothing, only the feeling of eyes on you.

Your explanation for why you felt this necessary replayed over and over in his mind, each time making less sense than the last. How could you think you didn’t matter, that you were nothing? Where the hell did you even get that? Sure, it wasn’t like you fed Michael and gave him a home or anything, protecting him and unknowingly saving a couple dogs. You definitely didn’t, like, penetrate through his walls of numbness and unfeeling heart and bring the tiniest bit of light into his life that only proceeded to illuminate his whole world. Nooo, no way, did you? Except that’s EXACTLY what you did.

It was in this moment that Michael realized just how much you actually meant to him. He couldn’t kill you. Not now—you both had come so far. He’d never met anyone like you, and that only drew him closer to you. Were you seriously the kind of person to look at yourself in the mirror and hate what you saw? And then immediately think that everyone else must, too? To think that you were nothing?

And when you reopened your beautiful (e/c) eyes to look at him with confusion, he shook his head at you. Slowly, back and forth, watching as your eyes widened with... desperation?

“Michael, please,” you spoke in a low voice, almost whispering, and something within him—something _you_ had brought out in him—broke at your sudden distress that he wasn’t going to kill you.

He continued to steadily shake his head, left and right in small movements.

“Michael, no, _please!_ ” you begged, reaching out and gripping onto his coveralls tightly.

Michael’s head movements quickened.

“Michael you don’t understand—I _need_ this! _Everyone else_ needs this! You may not realize it but _you_ need it!” you cried, tears starting to spill down your pale cheeks.

Michael continued shaking his head, stepping away from you and out of your grasp. He could’ve screamed at you. You clearly had no _idea_ what he needed. The fact that you had the audacity to tell him such things only made his anger worse.

And when he got angry, the voices were triggered.

They began as whispers, egging onto the growing urge within him, feeding into that rage that he fought so hard to put away when around you. And he had done so well to do that— _for you and you only._ Until now. And that part of him only grew stronger the more you pleaded.

Now Michael was shaking his head back and forth for a different reason. His large hands moved to grip the sides of his head, like he could suppress the voices, suppress the urge. He wasn’t supposed to hurt you, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself to, he’d made it so he never wanted to.

“ _Michael please, I can’t DO this anymore! KILL ME! PLEASE, KILL ME!!_ ” you yelled.

And the animalistic desire he had protected you from for so long broke through, and hunger washed over him as he stopped all his movements and looked up at you darkly.

_Fine._

The Shape lunged.

Large hands grasped your throat, immediately cutting off your air supply. Your hands flew up to strong forearms, holding on tightly as you already felt yourself losing consciousness. You couldn’t help but look into the dark holes of Michael’s mask, finding a sliver of something black, pure black. A black not casted by shadows, but a black fueled by rage, emptiness, and beast-like hunger. This was the Michael you had never seen—never been on the receiving end of. But this was the Shape. And this was what you had wanted.

Every part of Michael that would’ve been screaming at him to let you go, to not hurt or even touch you—was silenced, and all he could focus on was the way your beautiful (e/c) eyes slowly lost their spark, their life. Feeling how your pulse sped up against his palm in your throat and then began to slow.

And as you started to fall into that deep, dark hole of blackness—that void of nothingness which you had craved for what felt like years—you fully realized these were your last moments; looking into the eyes of the Shape and clinging onto someone you no longer recognized. Your racing thoughts about leaving this life behind suddenly quieted, and you looked into those black eyes that watched you slowly die with satisfaction and searched for _your_ Michael—a Michael you found yourself still wanting, a Michael that the tiniest part of you made you want to stay.

“ _Michael,_ ” you croaked quietly, calling out to him, wanting nothing more than to see him one last time.

And your voice struck that very part of Michael that had been overcome with a feral state of ferocity.

He immediately loosened his grip. He felt awake but at the same time so lost, like he was stuck in some nightmare. You involuntarily gasped; you hated how good the air that returned to your lungs felt.

And then Michael let go of you.

You fell to the floor, coughing and shaking, sobbing and crying incoherent words. Michael just stood, frozen, staring above you at the place you had been—the place his own hands held you by your throat at.

You were a mess of emotions—upset, confused, frustrated, sad, scared—but you didn’t know how to communicate them. You didn’t know a lot of things actually; now you were asking the question, _do I really want this?_

The answer would shift to “no” with each glimpse up at the tall shape standing over you.

Why didn’t he end you? The opportunity was right there—you were literally begging for it. You were about to croak out those questions until you watched Michael slowly lower to the floor, resting on his knees, his head tilted downwards, no doubt staring at the floor in front of him.

Once you regained whatever composure you had, you both sat in silence, not knowing what would come next, or even what the other was thinking. You didn’t know Michael was at a loss, the numbness he had before meeting you returning, leaving him feeling emotionless, empty. You also clearly didn’t know how much you meant to him, otherwise you wouldn’t’ve asked such a thing from him. It wasn’t as simple as you thought it was—just requesting that he kill you. It wasn’t at all easy like you thought it would be for him. Not when he’d worked so hard to suppress any urge to harm you, and not when you’d brought out parts of him he didn’t know he had, made him feel things he didn’t know he could. And when you thought over it, and realized that, your want for death was forgotten, and you looked at the broken man before you with sorrow.

Michael had reached up to his masked head and was holding either side of it, like he was still trying to quell some part of him that still wanted to hurt and even kill you like you had asked. Thoughts left and entered his mind and didn’t stay; none felt significant, all indistinct. He didn’t even register the delicate hand that rested on his thigh.

“Michael?” you called softly.

He didn’t move.

“Michael,” you tried again.

Nothing.

You felt another tear slide down your cheek. Then another. And then another. Until you were silently crying again.

“ _Oh God,_ ” you breathed in a quivering voice; you were hit with the full extent of what you had done, what you had asked. Memories had flooded your mind of past days spent with Michael, all the times you—both—had completely forgotten your worries, your problems. The demons inside of each of you were put to rest every time you were around each other, whether you noticed it or not. And along with these realizations, you remembered one very important aspect of every single memory with Michael: there was never any malice in his eyes when he looked at you.

Until you pushed him to go against everything he’s worked for.

Until you pushed him to hurt you.

“ _Michael I am so sorry,_ ” you expressed, struggling to use your voice as you sobbed. And when Michael remained still, you lifted your hand from his thigh and cautiously placed it overtop one of the hands he held against his head.

“ _Michael,_ ” you cried, whimpering his name over and over again between gasps for breath. You now had both hands on top of his own, gently stroking them with your shaky thumbs, trying to soothe him if at all possible. You could’ve sworn you heard a soft grunt escape his throat, which prompted you to carefully wrap your hands around his and ease them off of his head. He didn’t try to push you away, so you continued until they were no longer pressed against his mask. Then, letting out another choked sob, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself close to his warm, strong body and crying into the fabric of his coveralls. When no arms returned your hug, you only tightened your grip, nuzzling your head firmly against the crook of his neck.

As Michael sat there, feeling your tears dampen his jumpsuit, he still felt out of it, and like he’d lost a part of him—which part, he wasn’t even sure of that—

“ _I love you,_ ” you told him, your broken voice muffled against him.

Then he felt it. That small but familiar warmth that bloomed within him whenever you expressed any feelings towards him, whether it be through actions, or words. Though it often would frustrate him when it wouldn’t go away, seeing as he still had no idea what it meant, but in this moment—with your arms holding him tightly, almost desperately—he was glad for how strongly it filled him now.

You felt strong arms slowly but finally wind themselves around your torso, holding you just as firmly as you held Michael.

“I’m so sorry Michael, it was wrong of me to ask that of you,” you said, your sobs slowing, your voice hoarse.

And you did regret what you did.

Though you knew it wouldn’t be easy to suddenly love and accept yourself, you knew there was at least someone who did care for you—in his own way. You still couldn’t believe it took practically a near death experience along with the love of your life almost completely losing himself mentally to realize that even though things were really tough at the moment, the solution wasn’t to die. You have an amazing and strong outlet, one that will protect you and do what they could to help you, even if it was only small gestures. And because that outlet was Michael, you couldn’t be more happier to try to move forward the best you could, not only for yourself, but for him, too.

You felt Michael lean back to sit on the floor, pulling you closer still. Repositioning your head so your chin rested atop Michael’s shoulder, you leaned the side of your head against his own. Reaching up with your hand to softly stroke the faux hair of his mask, you allowed yourself to smile through your tears. Because you weren’t alone. It took you so long until this dark evening to see it—hell, to _feel_ it—but you _did_ matter.

Especially to Michael.

And that meant everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this a couple days ago to deal with things I was feeling towards some stuff that was happening. It’s surprising to find how well writing can help. I suggest if anyone ever feels like this to find a healthy way to express those emotions, such as music, journaling, etc. because there are so many other unhealthy and even dangerous ways to deal with those thoughts and feelings. I love all the support everyone has left through both kudos and comments, they really make me feel like—well, like “I Matter”. Thank you 🖤
> 
> \- Wolf


	19. Trick-or-Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets the idea to go trick-or-treating with Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel
> 
> \- Hey guys! Sorry it’s been quite a while since I’ve last posted something, but I had to write something for Michael since it’s Halloween! I hope you enjoy this cuz I had definitely fun writing it. Happy Halloween! 🖤

It started out as a joke at first, but you gave it some thought and serious consideration, and now you weren’t going to let this opportunity pass by. This year trick-or-treating was on a different day than actual Halloween, and seeing as Michael never got to participate in Halloween activities because of his yearly killing sprees, this was a perfect time to start. Your idea was simple: trick-or-treating with Michael Myers.

At first the thought sounded like a hilarious idea and sounded like it would be taken as a joke, but as you thought it over, it wasn’t too bad of an idea. Michael never really got to do much trick-or-treating ever and you knew he wouldn’t mind all of the candy. You had to think of how to best introduce the idea to Michael so that he would agree. Trying not to get too excited or get your hopes up, you thought of how to convince him. 

Michael was sitting at the dining table eating his lunch with his mask folded up only exposing his mouth as you walked up to the table and sat across from him. He glanced up at you for only a second before looking back down at his food and resumed eating. You opened your mouth to speak but closed it, hesitating while trying to gather your thoughts. Michael glanced up and stared at you waiting for you to say something. 

“Sooo,” you smiled nervously, “I was thinking that because trick-or-treating isn’t on Halloween this year that we could go trick-or-treating together. And before you say no, just remember that there will be plenty of candy involved and it won’t interfere with your Halloween plans.” 

He blinked and continued to stare at you. 

“It’ll be fun, I promise!” You pleadingly smiled at him. 

Unsure of what he was getting himself into, he stared at you before reluctantly shook his head yes once and returned to his food seemingly trying to forget this idea for the moment. He knew that you’d probably never get off of his back about it and he could always just disappear somewhere without you seeing. 

“Really?” You excitedly giggled. Michael gave you a glare that said  _ don’t push it _ , so you put both of your hands up and said, “okay, okay. You won’t regret this~”

Michael knew that whenever you said “you won’t regret this” that he most definitely would, but he just sighed as you got up from the table. The gears in your head began to turn with ideas for your costume and also Michael’s. You realized that he probably wouldn’t be able to wear his own mask considering the fact that it’d be very suspicious, so you should get him a new mask just to be better safe than sorry. You planned to stop by a store with costumes and masks later so you could have them for treat-or-treating tomorrow.

**°+°+°+°+°  
**

The store you entered had a plethora of masks, costumes, props, makeup, and even fake blood. You loved Halloween, so all of this was so fun to see and you wanted so badly to go all out, but you reminded yourself that you should keep it moderately simple for Michael sake because if you took too long to get ready, you were worried that he would get impatient and change his mind. 

The costumes ranged from children’s costumes to sexy maid outfits to bloody horror masks. You already had a pretty good image of what you wanted for a mask so when you found something resembling it, you smiled. It was a white mask with bleeding eyes and a sewn shut mouth. It was scary and simple. Now the challenge was finding something appropriate for Michael. 

You moved up and down the aisles looking at masks and finding a lot of “no’s” and a few “maybe’s”. You laughed to yourself when you saw a Hello Kitty mask and pictured Michael even looking at it, let alone wearing it. Then you came upon a mask that was very promising. It was kind of gremlin looking with warts and wrinkles on its face and overexaggerated features, but it wasn’t too cheesy of a mask where Michael would feel incredibly stupid wearing it. You decided to call it a day and picked that for a Michael’s mask. 

Now comes the hard part. 

**~_~_~_~_~**

Michael was sitting on the couch and staring at the tv that was currently playing a commercial. You walked up and stood in front of him, feeling like you were about to give some sort of presentation. 

“So you know how you can’t really wear your mask in crowded public places because they would most likely recognize you?” You said to Michael hesitantly. He looked slightly uninterested in what you had to say and that didn’t make your nerves any better. You sighed, “I’m going to cut to the point. I got you a new mask to wear for trick-or-treating so you don’t draw attention to yourself wearing yours.”

Michael’s gaze flashed to yours and you had trouble reading him. You weren’t sure if he was angry, unamused, didn’t care, or somehow all three. The mask that you picked for Michael was in a bag on the floor and you figured if maybe you showed it to Michael that it would make his decision easier. 

“This is what I picked out,” you knelt down and grabbed the bag, taking the mask out of it. He stared at the mask in your hand, studying it, most likely thinking of if this trick-or-treating thing was actually worth it. All in all though it was just a mask. It would cover his face all the same and still would hide himself behind layers of latex, no different from the mask he wore now. The only difference was its appearance, and admittedly it wasn’t attractive but looks aren't necessarily the biggest concern for Michael. 

You raised your eyebrows at Michael and asked, “well? What do you think?”

His eyes looked into your e/c ones and saw an incredible amount of eagerness in them that you looked like you were trying to hide—unsuccessfully. 

Michael sighed and stood from the couch in front of you and you thought he was going to walk away, but when he grabbed the mask from your hand and reached up for his own mask you just stood there thinking that he was just messing with you. He took off his mask and tossed it to the side and slid the new mask over his face. Looking at him with this new mask, you couldn’t help but smile and you had to suppress a laugh so you wouldn’t cause Michael to change his mind. 

Him wearing that mask also made you think of if this is how people thought Michael actually looked, considering the fact that so many people see him as a “monster” and hardly anyone has seen his face. But you know who he is, and he isn’t a monster. Underneath that mask there was a beautiful man who was both simple and so complex, and despite everything, there was still a childish side to him that made him even consider the possibility of going trick-or-treating with you. 

“Is it okay?” You asked him, slightly nervous because now you definitely had your hopes up and you wanted so badly for this to happen. 

He considered his answer and finally shook his head yes. He took the mask off and gave it back to you and retrieved his mask from the couch where he put it and put it back on and walked away into the kitchen, probably to get more food. You watched as he walked and waited until he couldn’t see you to do a happy dance. You seriously couldn’t believe this was happening and you were for sure going to hold him to this. 

**{=}{=}{=}{=}**

It was finally 6:30pm; 30 minutes before trick-or-treating started and it was more than enough time to get ready. For your outfit, you decided to go with black jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a black hoodie over top of that. You put your hair into a loose braid so it wouldn’t be in your way when you put the mask on. Michael came upstairs just as you had pretty much finished getting ready and watched you. 

“You ready?” You asked him and saw that he was wearing the mask you bought him. He was also wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, along with dark gray sweatpants and of course his boots. You had one last thing for him that you wanted to add. You turned towards the desk in your room and grabbed a pair of large black leather gloves and walked over to Michael to give them to him. He looked down at them and thankfully he didn’t look displeased. He grabbed them from you and looked down at them and back up to you. 

“They’ll keep your hands warm, and plus they look really nice,” you smiled and bit your lip. He put the gloves on and they fit perfectly onto his hands. He tested the leather by clenching his fists and the leather squeaked from being stretched.  _ Damn, you could choke me anytime with those _ . You pushed the thought away. You had other things to focus on right now. That was a thought you’d save for later. 

“Okay good, I think we’re both ready,” you grabbed your bag and Michael’s and handed his to him and began to head downstairs. You put on your sneakers and mask and then pulled your hood up and opened the front door. You saw tons of kids running around and plenty of houses supplying candy. Luckily your neighborhood was good for trick-or-treating so you wouldn’t have to go far. Michael stood behind you and waited for you to step out of the house. The cold autumn air enveloped you when you stepped outside and realized how chilly it was. If you got too cold you could always use Michael to warm you up. 

You and Michael began to walk around the neighborhood, coming across houses that offered candy and you asked Michael if he was going to go up with you. He looked down at you with no response and after a moment you just decided that he would come up if he wanted to. You approached a house that had a few lights, some pumpkins, and a couple cobweb decorations on their bushes and took a couple pieces of candy from the bowl, also grabbing a couple for Michael. Michael stayed on the sidewalk and waited for you to come back and deposit his candy into his bag. It went like that for quite a few more houses. 

“Michael you should come up with me, I mean it’s not like anyone will recognize you and I’m tired of getting your candy for you,” you said to him as you were about to reach another house. He gave you a side-glance and continued walking beside you. You sighed, hoping that when you got to the next house that he would do as you suggested. 

When you got to the next house and began walking up the driveway and saw Michael still walking beside you, you were immediately happy. A grin struck you from inside your mask and you actually couldn’t believe this was happening. Luckily no one was outside to dispatch the candy so Michael wasn’t going to be acknowledged by people. You both grabbed candy and left the house. When you reached the sidewalk and continued walking you looked up at Michael. 

“Look at us two, trick-or treating,” you giggled as Michael pulled out a candy and began to unwrap it, ignoring what you said. He pulled up his mask, popped the candy in his mouth, and pulled it back down. 

Occasionally, Michael would glance around and sometimes stare at certain people or houses, seemingly taking note of them. Sometimes Michael would stop or slow down slightly to observe specific houses longer and you knew he was thinking of possibly killing their inhabitants on Halloween. You couldn’t blame Michael for it because he agreed to letting you drag him along for trick-or-treating, so it was only fair that he got to do some light stalking. 

Both of you reached another house and began walking up their driveway and saw two people, a man and a woman, sitting on either side of a bowl of candy on a table. You got slightly nervous because this was one of the first houses that Michael had approached with people outside. You walked up to the candy, Michael right behind you, and waved when the woman waved at you. 

“Wow, aren’t you tall!” The man gestured to Michael, “how tall are you?”

Michael just stared at him and blinked, giving him no response. You chuckled nervously and decided to respond for Michael. 

“He’s six-foot-four,” you said, your mask slightly muffling your speech. The man nodded and smiled at your response. Michael reached around you and grabbed a fistful of candy. You slapped his arm as he dropped the candy in his bag and gave him a look, forgetting he wouldn’t be able to see your face under the mask. As you were about to apologize, the man spoke. 

“Aw it’s alright, a big man like him could use extra,” he winked, “you two have a nice night.”

“Thank you,” you laughed and breathed out a sigh of relief and began to walk back down their driveway. “Michael, I can’t believe you just did that, you’re lucky they were nice!” You said to him and shook your head. Michael clearly didn’t care and continued staring straight ahead, eyeing the next house up ahead. 

Just as you were about to approach the next house, two young boys dressed as Hulk and Darth Vader came sprinting towards you two. The boy in the Darth Vader costume swerved around the two of you, but the kid in the Hulk costume came barreling between you and knocking into Michael.  _ Well, he was dressed as the Hulk. _

“Sorry!” The kid in the Hulk costume turned around and yelled to Michael and started laughing with his friend. Michael turned around and stopped and was just dead staring at the kid as he walked away. 

“Michael,” you put your hand on his arm, “he’s like 10 years old, calm down.” 

Michael glanced down at you and turned around and started walking ahead of you. You quickly walked up to him to catch up with his large strides. 

The rest of the houses you went to went pretty smoothly, despite Michael grabbing way more than his fair share. You and Michael went through the whole neighborhood and got so much candy that it was unbelievable. You both finally reached your house, your feet and legs tired from walking and when you opened your front door you immediately collapsed on the couch. You took off your mask and put it down next to you on the couch. Michael came in after you and shut the door. 

“So, let’s see how much we got,” you grabbed your bag and slid off of the couch and onto the floor. You dumped your bag out onto the floor and began sorting your candies and waited as Michael approached you. He sat down onto the floor and dumped his candy out near yours and you compared the piles. His was literally almost twice as big as yours. 

“ _ How  _ did you get that much?” You stared open-mouthed at his pile, already knowing what the answer was. At almost every house he grabbed a whole fistful of candy, which was a lot since Michael's hands are pretty big. Michael began unwrapping another candy and pulled up his mask and popped it into his mouth. 

“Okay, before you eat all of it, we should trade some,” you smirked at him knowing full well that you were just going to trade him the candies you didn’t like because he would literally eat anything you gave him anyways. Michael looked at you and then glanced to your pile, thinking. You giggled as he pointed at one of your Snickers bars. 

“Yeah okay, you can definitely have that,” you handed it to him and then pointed to one of his blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers. He picked it up from his pile and tossed it into yours. This trading went on until you were finally happy with what you had. 

“Okay, that’s all,” you said to Michael and held out your hand to shake and jokingly said, “pleasure doing business with you.”

Michael glanced down at your hand and ignored your hand shake so he could put all of his candy back into his bag. You laughed and shook your head as you also began to collect your pile and put it back into your bag. When Michael finally put away all of his candy, he stood up with his bag in hand and started to walk towards the stairs to your room. 

“Are you gonna keep that mask on?” You glanced over at his own mask sitting on the coffee table. He stopped and looked over at you and to his mask on the coffee table and then continued to walk up the stairs. You chuckled, “okayy, you do you.”

You happily stood from the floor and grabbed your candy bag. This night was definitely going to be one of your favorite nights with Michael. You decided that a good way to end this perfect night would be to watch a good horror movie with him. You began to walk up the stairs and thought about what movie you would watch and how you would probably be high off of sugar in the next hour. A thought crossed your mind that made you laugh, and if you had ever told anyone this, they would never believe you. 

You just went trick-or-treating with Michael Myers. 


	20. Fallen Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader asks Michael to help them rake up leaves, and he does... but in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf
> 
> \- Wow it’s been awhile! I’ve missed writing for Michael, and since it’s his season, figured now is the best time to get back into it! I hope you guys enjoy—I wanted to give this as much of a “fall-vibe” as I could... XD

“Michael? Could you help me out in the yard please?” you called into your house.

Of course, no response; the man was too busy watching Halloween specials on tv like a 4 year old.

You closed your back patio door with a huff, annoyed at your hopeless attempt to get The Shape’s help. Trying not to give up without even starting your work though, you grabbed your rake and began to scrape up the leaves that completely littered your backyard. Man you hated this job—it had never been yours to do until you got your own house, and seeing as there was hardly any step to be taken without the loud crunching sound of dead leaves beneath your feet—well, you just knew your yard was in need of some TLC.

Not even 45 minutes in and your back was killing you. You propped your rake up so you could lean against it to admire your work so far... two measly piles. _God, why were you doing this again?_ You looked back towards your house contemplating trying to get your serial killer boyfriend to help you rake up leaves. The idea made you laugh—it was pretty ludicrous if you thought about it, but when you made eye contact with his menacing figure standing behind the sliding glass door of your back patio staring at you, you thought you’d give it another go; his interest in what you were doing was obviously piqued if he got off his ass from “Charlie Brown” to come watch you suffer.

Trudging through the leaves to your patio, you stood in front of the door looking through the glass at him while you thought of your question’s wording. With a sigh, you pulled back the door and looked up at him with a silent plea in your eyes.

“Will you help me?” you asked, your tone casual as to not sound like you were on the verge of getting on your knees to beg him for his improbable assistance.

He tilted his head at you.

Ten seconds more of silence was all you could take before you took his “response” as a no, and you turned on your heel with an annoyed exhale to get back to your feeble attempts at ridding your yard of crap.

You ignored the initial shooting pains that went up your spine when you began to rake again, making your recent pile of leaves slightly larger with each pull. Small grumbles couldn’t help but escape past your lips as you worked, irritated that after all this time with helping Michael—feeding him, sheltering him, clothing him, even bathing him—he couldn’t spare you 30 minutes of—

You bumped into a solid wall behind you and whipped around to find the big asshole staring down at you with that same head tilt, watching. Waiting.

“You gonna help me?” you asked, not wanting to know how he seemingly floated across all those leaves since he made zero sound getting through the noisy yard to you.

His head straightened, but you couldn’t see much threat behind the small movement.

You narrowed your eyes at him in skepticism, and when he didn’t turn around, you lifted your head high and beamed.

“Can you please grab the two black bins by the side of the house and drag them over here? We need to start putting the leaves somewhere,” you told him as you went back to raking up your pile.

You didn’t check to see for any indication of an “okay” or “no” but when you glanced behind you and he was gone, you just hoped he was actually doing what you asked. Questions were answered however when you heard two loud thumps behind you and turned to find Michael standing behind just the two black bins you were waiting to see.

“Ah, thank you,” you said. “This pile’s ready to start going in there so just pick up like an armful of leaves and dump ‘em in,” you explained, and began doing just that. Three trips later with still no Michael making any contributions, you asked, “Can you help me here please?”

He didn’t move right away, and you stopped after dumping some leaves into the bin to look at him for a response. He looked like he was deep in thought—seriously contemplating something. What, you don’t know; it’s not that difficult to pick up some leaves and put them somewhere else. You giggled at him just standing there like he was making the most difficult decision of his life and his eyes snapped to you. You held up your hands defensively as you turned back to your pile, a smile still plastered across your face. Not long after, you felt his presence beside you, and saw him bend down to pick up a handful of leaves.

“Thank you,” you expressed quietly, not wanting to make him regret doing this for you.

About a minute in of back and forth trips, the bin was almost completely full.

“I’m gonna have to push ‘em down further,” you muttered to yourself, wanting to make the most of the bin since you still had long ways to go, and gripped either side of the rim before stepping into the pile of leaves with a loud crunch. After pulling yourself into the bin, you began stepping down on the leaves, letting out a satisfied laugh when they easily moved and left way more room for more leaves to be piled in.

“Okay Michael, keep putting in leaves and I can step them further into the bin,” you told him, not looking up from your completely engulfed feet while you kept pressing them down. But you stopped when you felt things tickling your back and head. You looked up and found Michael was letting the leaves from his hands trickle from his fingers right over top of you.

“Hey!”

He ignored you and turned to get more leaves. You shook your head as you brushed the papery petals from your shoulders and hair and went back to flattening the pile at your feet. You looked up just in time though for Michael to dump more leaves on top of you again.

“Dude! Into the bin, not on me!” you whined, and he spun around, grabbed more from your leaf pile, and returned to dump that armful on you again.

“Michael stop it I don’t want leaves in my hair!”

More small red and orange papers rained down on you.

“Michael!!”

The man scooped up another armful.

“Sto—“

You were showered in old, dried up leaves, and in that moment you cursed Michael for his height.

Swiping away in frustration all the leaves that clung to your body, you spoke your mind: “You know all I ever do is help you, I don’t know why you can’t return the favor ever. It’s a simple task you know, there’s no point in literally bullying me while we do this—“

You stopped to read the tilt to his head. He was stupid tall; even standing on a big compressed pile of leaves inside of a bin you weren’t taller than him.

He looked down and you followed his gaze to a rather beautiful red-tinted leaf that rested completely balanced on the rim of the bin. With a gentleness you couldn’t understand, his large fingers picked up the thin petal and slowly moved to delicately place the leaf right on top of your head.

And his eyes seemingly asked, ‘ _What are you gonna do about it?_ ’

“That’s _it_!!” you yelled, and ripped the singular leaf out of your hair and gripped either side of the bin about to pull yourself out and attempt to tackle your boyfriend to the ground in a fit of rage, but in your haste, the bin wobbled and your one leg that was already lifted to step back onto the ground threw off your balance even more.

Down went the bin, you with it... well, you _in_ it. A loud thud sounded and you yelled in pain when your body smacked against the cold, unforgiving earth beneath you. Leaves spilled everywhere—all your work, back where it started, and when you pulled your leg out of the bin and looked up at the two large boots planted in front of your face, you couldn’t help the angry growl that left your throat as you grabbed them in anger.

“ _Michael Audrey Myers, you SUCK!!!_ ” you hollered as you tried to shove the giant man’s legs.

He took a few steps backwards as he tried to shake you off of him but you kept grabbing at him. A string of curses and other unintelligible insults followed as you pounded your fists against him anywhere you could, then scrambling uneasily to your feet to aim your blows for his stomach when you suddenly felt two huge, warm hands grasp either side of your ribcage. Next thing you knew, you were flying backwards through the air, instinctively expecting another painful collision to the solid surface below you and instead landing in a surprisingly pillow-like pile of leaves.

It was an overcast day, light gray covering vibrant blue, but you could see the bright sun peeking through the clouds as you stared up at the sky above you. You felt Michael’s presence towering over you, and you sat up to meet his eyes with a glare, seething.

“You know, it’s common sense to actually help someone when you agree to help them—but I get it, seeing as common sense is something you lack,” you sneered boldly, and yelped when Michael aggressively dropped to his knees overtop of you.

Quicker than you could register, he had his shin pressed firmly overtop of your ankles and your back slammed against the ground with your hands pushed against your chest, rendering you incapable of moving your legs and arms. His one large hand gripped your wrists tightly while with his other hand, he began pulling the leaves that surrounded you into a pile overtop of you.

 _Dear God he was going to try and bury you in them!_ you thought, ignoring how childish the action really was. You screamed at him in protest and wriggled around as hard as you could, but Michael’s weight pressing down on your limbs prevented you from getting free of his grasp.

In between hollers, giggles started arising from your throat as the leaves tickled your exposed skin. Michael had successfully gotten a good amount of the papery petals piled onto your abdomen even with all your struggling; things really only got easier for him as your laughter increased because your incessant writhing grew weaker.

Red and orange surrounded your vision, and all you could do was lay there throwing insults and roaring while Michael buried you alive.

“P-please Michael sto-stop!” you cried between laughs, and Michael only continued to use his strong arm to pull leaves around and onto you. “ _Michael!!_ ” you managed again just before he moved onto burying your face.

Frantically, you tried to blow the leaves off of your face as they came. It was an attempt that didn’t work and you were forced to move your head to the side, squealing as the leaves kept coming. It was a weird feeling—becoming one with autumn’s blanket, but there wasn’t much you could do; all your strength was lost the longer you laughed and Michael easily overpowered you.

Until his weight on your legs slightly shifted off of you.

As quick as humanly possible for someone buried beneath a pile of leaves with a giant serial killer overtop of them, you slipped your leg out from under Michael and with all your might, lunged your foot out at top speed, successfully nailing the man in what you could only assume were his balls.

A muffled grunt escaped from his mask and his grip on your wrists immediately loosened, allowing you to rip them away from him and shoot up from your position on the ground. Leaves flew up around you as you hurled yourself backwards and watched in your frenzied state as Michael fell forward on his knees with one hand on the ground, and the other holding his sacred area which was no longer sacred.

Man, you had never kicked Michael Myers in the penis before. This was a new experience for you both. Although of course it was only enjoyable for one of you, but that was besides the point—you had actually managed to _inflict pain_ upon The Shape.

You let out a quiet snort at the sight of the serial killer before you who was completely frozen, no doubt trying to gather himself and his thoughts after the brutal blow to his testicular region. However, his eyes snapped up to you with a dangerous glare at the sound of your soft, mocking laughter.

“Hey, it was only self defense,” you tried to justify, but the look in his deep brown eyes showed no signs of forgiveness. No understanding in those dark, soulless holes.

Oh well... no point in denying your doom anymore.

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t continue to “postpone” it.

You smirked at him deviously before swiping a bunch of leaves in his face to buy yourself time to push yourself off the ground and bolt, ignoring the threatening growl that followed and the menacing presence that was soon at your heels.


End file.
